I predict I’ll have lunch soon, and in 2013 too
Much as I want to steal from Willy the Shake, and employ purple phrasings like “the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces” to map the mental landscapes of this past year, I’m too drowsy to try and capture all the year’s pathos and its pleasures in a summary. To borrow more from the bard, instead, let’s merely glance back at such stuff as dreams are made on, and round our little life with a sleep.
First, I’m still grateful to remain above ground. I don’t know what’s on the menu in eternity, but for the moment, I’m dieting. I’m happy there are hummingbirds, old friends, cake and metaphors. And let’s hear it for words: there are gallons of them about, but I’ll never tire of the drinking. Words have weight, and they are often slung about carelessly; I’ve got some flesh wounds myself from both delivering and darting away from them, but they still provide me with comfort.
It seems to me that there’s never been a better time to be a freelance writer, whether you’re in it for the shekels or the soulfulness. For example, in this past year I spent a month in Panama and two in the Bahamas, only because the Internet’s indulgences let me ply my trade many meaty miles from where the trading was done.
I’m an accomplished complainer, but I’m trying to be happy with the little things. For instance, my sideburns are coming in nicely. After all, look what Faulkner’s moustache did for him. Look what Gertrude Stein’s mustache—well, never mind. But finding small pleasures is bigger than it seems.
The Keyboard Reels at the Possibilities
So, for 2013, I might try writing an advice column for the lovelorn, using only passages from Dickens. For instance, “Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows,” might work well for someone hoping to leave an office affair.
Or maybe a write a cookbook of Dali’s favorite foods. His favorite drink was said to be a cocktail made of absinthe and eggs. Perhaps add some melted watch and cheese, and a bowler hat full of similes. You get the idea—the coming year is wide open.
I must sign off with a wave to my father, Sgt. Bentley, who left this world on New Year’s Day two years ago. I miss him.
Best to all (except those of you who are weasels) in 2013! Oh, what the heck, you weasels can have a fine time too.
