My mind is still impossibly squidgy from last night's champagne toasts (of which there were multiple, and, if I remember correctly, "To Lesotho!" was one), and while a pile of work sits not so idly by waiting for me to tackle it with the determination of "new beginnings" (another toastee), I fear the brain squidginess wins by a knockout. Instead, I think I'll read Peter Carey's Theft, one of the many, many books I meant to get to before the last of the year ran out.
There are plenty of things I meant to get to before the year ran out. Projects. People. Thoughts. Writing. And above all, books. Stacks and stacks of books collecting dust. Elizabeth Bowen. Cormac McCarthy. Fun Home. Kate Atkinson. The Emperor's Children. John Updike.
The thoughts are collecting dust too. In lieu of resolutions, I am making a list of things I have been meaning to write about over the past few days, which I hope to get to once the fog of 2006 has cleared. Tomorrow. Tomorrow...
(I still feel hours behind. Ideas have trails, I feel people in the room even after they've left, the clock feels like it's dragging its feet. And I don't think it's just the champagne: this 2007 is proving impossibly slow to break in. 2007: the already stubborn year, year of jet lag, of remnants and things I have been meaning to do. Or, perhaps, with a dose of optimism: the anticipatory year, year of hope, of good things yet to come.)