2013 New Year’s Resolutions are so difficult. I fucked it up within the first 24 hours.
“Write more, one blog post a week,” I said to no one, ever.
It was something I wrote down before the stroke of a new dawn of a new year in order to train my brain to understand ‘discipline’ and ‘structure’ and other things I needed to make writing an extension of my routine, a necessary and often enjoyable (but initially tedious) task for self improvement and mindful zen and to “put myself out there,” if I really want to be a writer. Kind of like flossing in public.
Then January 1 came and went with a ten hour binge of DVR entertainment on a physical and emotional recovery. I didn’t do anything stupid the night before. I drank a whole lot on a frigid mountain top with a semi-large group of friends and watched as a waning gibbous ascended higher in the sky, and I contemplated far-off galaxies through the incredibly amazing Star Walk App.
I caught a cold the afternoon of Dec 30 and was determined to ignore its looming threat and the HELLFIRE I knew my lymph nodes would pay when I sent my core temperature to the bowls of a Northern California winter night with only a single layer of engineered nylon as a barrier between me and the chilly atmosphere. But I maintained my conviction. I layered, expertly. Camping was the only thing that could appease my irrational desire for a memorable New Year’s Eve activity, and one that required little pomp and zero circumstance. We would deliberately gather under the stars like wise elders of an era that only Tolkien or Peter Jackson could evoke in our collective consciousness.
And there would be whiskey.
I should also mention I have embarked on writing a personal account of happenings that had once occurred to me in my lifetime, events that have certainly changed and shaped me and it’s been long enough that I realize that now. I won’t use the word “genre” or “memoir” because they are unearned. Until someone else of thoughtful consideration describes the words I commit to paper as such, they will remain fluffy, French-glazed jargon with harmful consequence. They are only to be used for deliberate distinction, a notation of something worth indexing. It’s like when people overuse “fiancée” and begin to wave it around like a big penis devoid of humility and grace. It becomes in poor taste and putrid ego, completely numb to the fact that that no one else is basking in it’s meaningless, self-realized status.
That’s just not me.
This personal account will not be posted online, but this blog will help maintain my discipline as I catalog my whereabouts and feelings and the atmospheric pressure throughout these days. S’here it goes.
Day 2 of 2013:
- Where: San Francisco
- Weather: Crisp, clear. Highs – 61, lows – 39 degrees F.
- Consumed: 2 cups and one shot of sample coffee; 1 cup green tea; 1 cup gypsy cold care tea; tomato soup and sourdough; twice-baked potato; baby romaine and spinach salad.
- Mood: Pensive, calm, lethargic. Optimistic but uncertain. Detached and heavily romanticizing.
- Extenuating circumstances: Sick, got a parking ticket.
And because I missed it, here’s my entry for Day 1 of 2012:
- Where: Mount Tamalpais, Marin County and then San Francisco
- Weather: Cold and bright. Crystal clear.
- Consumed: 1 breakfast burrito with bacon; 2 cups of coffee; 2 cups of chai black tea; 2 pieces of See’s Candies; Thai take out of Tom Kha soup with tofu; cucumber salad; Mango Curry with chicken on white rice.
- Mood: Exhausted and lazy. Devoid of introspection and reveling in intellectual stimulation of documentary-style storytelling and comedic timing. Flair for the dramatic.
- Extenuating circumstances: Sick, Hungover, Day 1 of my grammatical pause. Went on a mountain hike before heading home.
Off to a pretty good start.