I don’t know why there’s such fascination in looking back to the supposed “best” of the previous year. It consumes December, along with the ramp up of in-your-face demands to be cheerful and buy, buy, buy. It’s the month when this semi-hermit retreats even further, trying to avoid the glitter and the omnipresent musak that every store seems to think is necessary. A trip to the Salvation Army and Good Will the other day reminded me that, as long as you’re out in the world — anywhere — Xmas will be thrust on you, like it or not. So I’ve done my thrift store book shopping for the year.
Looking forward will be a long, long exercise in observing the side effects of 2016. It’s bad enough already to give us a glimpse of what the next president will be doing for the next four years — primarily dismantling every humane effort that has managed to survive political, corporate, and military influence, and upping the pain and suffering worldwide.
I haven’t been able to write anything for the last month and I can’t find any spark that would reignite the desire to do so. There are times when I wish I was a normal human being, oblivious to everything that doesn’t concern me personally. But I’m not. I refuse to pretend that wishful thinking will make it so — whatever that “it” may be. I refuse to believe the lies that everything is not only just fine, but getting better all the time.
So where does that leave me? In a limbo in which I pick up one writing project after another, look at it and say, “why bother?” To help pass what little time I have left on this poor earth? Is that enough? I guess I’ll find out.