PROMISE OF SMALL THINGS

On New Years Day I'll be off, like previous years. But I have no plans. As usual I will not have a hang-over, because unlike everybody else I do not party till the ball drops, and largely avoid drinking with crowds larger than two. Or three. And my rendition of Auld Lang Syne makes senile geezers and children weep.

Probably shan't bathe. It's bad luck to wash on New Years.
No golf game with the buddies; my buddies don't play.
Absolutely no new year resolutions at all.
Because I don't play.


Two years ago I may have suggested to someone that they should be sacrificed to insect god, because as a human they were mediocre, but as a suitable offering they could rise above themselves. It was a grim and Edward Gorey-esque jest, but appropriate.


Several years before that, I headed into Chinatown for dim sum. I remember the weather we were having that day; grey drizzle and fog. It was stunningly beautiful.


That's something I might do again. I will have to bring the food home, of course, because one cannot eat indoors, but no matter. I expect my apartment mate will sleep late, and pad around in her pajamas and bathrobe all day, watch trashy 1950s movies, and argue with the turkey vulture, telling him to stop being mean to Otto the Octopus.
Reading, tea, snackies, outdoors with a pipe.
A quiet start to the new year.
A better year.



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