Like many, I have considered the advisability of resolving to make some changes in the coming year. I have dabbled before in the wickedly complex art of resolution construction. A few have taken. Smoking! Gave that up in ’84. Only took about ten years of fuming failure.
What else? Hmmm. Puns! I have often resolved to limit my unpleasant pun penchant. Others close to me have offered considerable encouragement but like a pun-drunk pugilist, I keep flailing away, looking for the elusive knock-out pun.
These modest concerns aside, this year I will turn seventy-one. Like the POTUS, number 45, (and why I would compare myself to Trump is hard to say. I suppose I see him as the worst of my generation, a post-war baby a year older than I am but still more of a representative boomer by dint of his mouth-scorning silver spoon sticking out and his egregious behaviour) my patterns are pretty much set. I have always been a creature of habit, comfortable habits for the most part. I have a creative urge which I have favoured these past few years, but this inclination has been tempered by an equally compulsive itch to be slothful.
I have two major writing projects which I abandon regularly for more immediate gratifications. This year, if the stars align, if my creative fluids are not unexpectedly sapped, I hope to finish at least one of them. As one of the two is milliseconds away from completion, I suppose it has the edge.
That’s it. A rather sad, hardly reflective post. Not a good sign as the new year begins. And while not reflective and yet, in turn, highly selective, I am satisfied that I have once again set a standard of expectation without actually resolving anything. Life, resolutions, all a leap of faith, eh…