Out with the old, in with the new. Never have really gotten that. I tend to like the old, or at the very least am stubborn about letting the old go. (Unless we’re talking clutter, because I’m a pro at the toss, to a fault. Don’t let me clean out your garage; there will be nothing left.) I have a strong grip. Stubbornness bestows its graces, but entrenchment and withdrawal do not belong to that number.
I would rather say Stick with the old, but let’s be about transformation.
My offerings to the new year, and my farewell to the old (goodbye sweet 2011, and goodbye one-year free subscription to the New York Times) are two-fold, both forward looking I suppose. One: listen more. To nothing in particular. In the quiet, in the chaos. Two: this one has to do with pleasure and leisure, which the following poem speaks to far better than I can or want to tonight (please don’t sue me Tony Hoagland, for not obtaining permission). I just cleaned the oven; my only date is with some flannel sheets and a warm duvet.
Good night. Good morning. Happy New Year.
Down near the bottom
between “green thread”
Resting on the page, the word
and sunlight were a present
and to remind you that,
that also needs accomplishing.
of love, and love
or a safe spare tire?
but today you get a telegram
—to any one among them
“The Word” by Tony Hoagland, from Sweet Ruin. © University of Wisconsin Press, 1992.