New Year's Resolutions, part one

I had a transatlantic conversation with a friend. And it started me thinking about the philosophical nature of this holiday. It went a little like this:

It’s interesting what you say about the dark side of people. I
think that's right. I have tended to look at people as though they are all dark, and maybe that is because of some fundamental fear
within myself about being good/evil...but it does make the world a
dark and judgmental place, which I suppose around the time of a
christian holiday which glorifies death and guilt (although not as
badly as easter) while holding out the hope of resurrection, makes
sense.

When you think about it, the pagans welcomed the light with
no strings - aside a big clean and burn of old things and some
drunken revels. The sun would return to the sky no matter what -
as long as you were thankful, or maybe killed a few marauding
tribesmen....even the catholics allowed confession and repentance,
for a price.

But the protestants - you're always fucked. No
wonder we drink.

More or less. No real conclusive answer to the dilemma of human nature or spirituality versus religion. Perhaps, if you inhale deeply, along with the scent of burning pine trees, you can smell desire for some cleansing rite, a moment where in leaving reality, you come closer to what is real.

And another Christmas holiday creaks to a close. We are now at the time when people start hearing the call of a return to life in the background – but it isn’t resurrection. It’s the insistent chapel bell, the deafening drone of the school buzzer, the endless repetitive ringing that echoes through our most intimate dreams, turning our feet back towards what we expect, and away from what we hope.

In between buying at the sales, and lying in bed, or taking the dog for a walk, while observing the ritual niceties of watching the children play, or talking to friends over coffee, or just hiding away in the kitchen, cooking another meal, we pour another glass of wine, wonder when New Year’s Eve became so boring, and lazily flutter over to the contemplation of resolutions.

Everyone seems bored with them – not just the people who find their hopeful tone somewhat reeking of not innocence, but idiocy. The stupidity of the country dweller as opposed to the calm cynicism of flagging down a taxi in heels. This year – what shall we think of? It’s a little like throwing a party – let’s make the calls and see who turns up.

So what this year? Or, perhaps, this year, so what? Last year nearly done, but if I blinked, I wouldn’t know which year I was in, so closely matched are they in dismal sentiment and lack of esprit. Joie de vivre, all the things that you are supposed to imbibe with your champagne. I’ve been drinking since Thanksgiving, in some reversal of an attempt to feel the Christmas spirit. I don’t feel it. I don’t, I didn’t and I probably never will. No – that’s wrong. I do feel it, in the moments where I remember my innocent dreams and my upwards gaze towards various objects of my love and affection. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that it doesn’t match well with wrapping paper, cards and the round of songs that everyone knows so well. I can’t find my colour or my size. Existential mall crisis.

I am bored, I’m frustrated and I’m angry - and that’s a recipe for trouble. Everyone should know by know that when people get complacent, we either get maudlin or edgy.

I feel danger flickering over the hilltops, and that’s not a very holiday way to feel.

New Year’s Eve is coming up, and I need to make a new set of resolutions. Which hopeless disappointment in life should I attach the colours of my ship to this year? My love life? My grey hair? My arrested writing career? All of the above? My worries bore me. I want to walk away from them, but I keep getting caught in the wrong story. Don’t they get it? Something’s wrong here.

There’s a line from some song that says ‘as long as I keep fighting, I’ll be all right’. Is that the resolution then, to keep fighting, whether it’s the danger over the hilltops, coming closer with every one of my stunted half-breaths, or the danger from my own anxiety?

Unable to live as myself, and unwilling to live as everyone else, I haven’t really made an easy road for my life. Maybe this will be the year I cut myself some slack. Maybe this will be the year when making life easier won’t mean settling for third best and trying to convince myself that it’s ok.

I saw a blog (linked to advertising, of course) on choosing your personal style - to show who you are – they said. Considering most of their clientele is young girls who read nothing but webpages like that one, I wonder if the irony is totally lost on the people who create that drivel. But they are right in one area – it’s easier to have a presence when you are not erasing yourself.

I guess that is the resolution. And not to beat myself up about fancying actors literally half my age. What the hell. No one stopped Picasso. When did someone make me the standard bearer for appropriate behaviour?

Bring on the champagne.