Newer, Fitter, Happier, More Productive

December 31

11:11 (wishtime) p.m.

Drunkest. Tropism. Entry. Ever.

I pledge to let it stand as written, no matter how outlandish, nonsensical, or filled with non-sequitars it might turn out to be.

My girlfriend, Meg, is incredibly beautiful. She went out tonight dressed in a pink tank top, boots, and glitter-speckled skin. I fall in love with her anew every time I look in her direction. She is gorgeous. She is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and she's still happening.

Me and Scott and D. wore our coats tonight. They're sport coats. They rule. We bought our coats in a thrift store, years ago. When we play the blues together (something that, alas, we did more in the past than we do in the present), we are known as the "Three Mens in Coat." That's not a drunken misspelling. It is, however, a transcription of a drunken mispronunciation...

Meg could not get over me in my coat. She said I looked completely different. That I looked "All dressed up." It's only fitting. She deserved a majestically attired escort. I did the best I could.

After some drinking at home, we went down to the Red Room. Meg had a New Year's outfit, and she wanted to go to a place with lots of beautiful people. The Red Room seemed the obvious place.

Y'all, the joint was jammed. We managed to commandeer a pair of bar stools for the four of us, and musical-chaired our way through an hour. Beautiful women, strange men, Brazilian suave-iosos. Xmas lights and ornaments. Harried but efficient and (mostly) friendly bartenders.

Scott took D. home when D. was on the edge of falling asleep. Me and Meg sat for a while, consuming beer and liquor (is sapphire and tonic not the best drink in this or any other hemisphere?). Then we, too, left. And here I am, writing the drunkest Tropism entry ever.

I think about the year that's gone by. This may be my most momentous twelvemonth ever. I've had four jobs (counting my silly one-day job) since January. I moved from Boone, NC to Santa Cruz, CA. I've written hundreds of thousands of words. I wrote... well, I'd have to look it up, but lots of stories. I've sold lots of stories, too. It's been a banner year, writing-wise, both in terms of tangible successes and intangible accomplishments. I've set goals and met them (and set other goals, and missed them). I moved three thousand miles away from the love of my life, and after some consideration decided that was the right decision. I read dozens of fine novels, probably hundreds of great poems. I met Ellen Bass. I started writing Tropism (Yes. To hell with chronology). I got evicted. I lived in a house with murals. I met Lynne, the loveliest of all observers. I met Seanan, after five years of correspondence. I've been happy, my friends. I've taken so many risks this year, and right now it's all aglow, everything's turned out fine, and I didn't succumb to stasis, to the habitual comfort of the status quo. I kept my life from being just a set of tropisms. I named my journal as I did to remind myself that boundaries are meant to be stretched, that I'm not ready to settle into a routine, that change is the first law of life. That I'd be disappointed with myself forever if I didn't push myself, pursue my dreams, and follow my nobler whims. To help me remember that life is to be lived, and experienced, and not simply to be endured.

As Adam Duritz wrote, it's been a long December, and there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last. And that would make the next year a damned fine one, my friends, my lovelies.

Kiss the one you love at midnight. Be happy. Make good resolutions. Wipe your slate clean, celebrate the death and rebirth of the sun. Kiss winter fondly. Sleep, and wake, and rise smiling, and looking forward. Enjoy the closing of the year. Enjoy the new one, too. Live. Love. Celebrate.