Wednesday, December 31: New Year's Eve
New Year's Eve--my least favorite day of the year. I dislike the energy of transition and ending, and the weight of the year ahead. It feels oppressive, heavy, and dark. Twenty years ago, just a couple of months before I moved to Barcelona, I wrote a poem called "New Year's Day, Planning to Leave New York," which I'll share here because it's NYE and melancholy is my default mood: New Year’s Day, Planning to Leave New York At the curbs, trees cry needles, stray tinsel glints winterly. The vast expanse of year ahead makes the air feel thin, jittery. Nothing weighs it down, no months yet mistake-scarred, no days lived or endured. Too many what-ifs and might-bes, too few should-haves, regrets, give this city a false skin of optimism. We are better at rehashing than living. My year stretches forward like good ceramic tiles: pieces of change nudged together, each beautiful alone, more beautiful together. Without you I’d skirt past these trees, untangle tinsel f...