January 3
One of the unexpected side effects of having actual time off for the holidays — five consecutive days off, something that hasn’t happened for me in God knows how long, and I even get to enjoy it two weeks in a row! — is the vertiginous feeling of not knowing what day it is anymore. I’m used to days feeling wrong: the Tuesday that feels like a Wednesday, or the Sunday that should have been a Saturday, it was so busy. Those, I know, but there’s always part of my head that knows what day it really is, because of deadlines and the freelancers’ internal compass that points towards work remaining. This break, though, there have been moments when I am genuinely lost, and have to take a second to stop and think and realize, yes; this has to be Saturday, because New Year was a Thursday this year and that was a couple days ago.
I’m not sure if this uncertainty is going to be something I’ll miss, come Monday, or not.
January 2
In my dream last night, a group of old friends — half-forgotten ones and a couple I barely knew — recruited me for a mission to go into Hell to save the soul of someone (I don’t remember who). As we ventured down the spiral staircase into Hell, we remembered that we’d been told to keep our shoes on at all costs, and our wits about us.
We arrived on what seemed like the bottom level, and were all ushered separately into a massive hall that looked like an elaborate summertime wedding reception, surrounded by eager waiters in fancy clothes offering dinner options and drinks. None of the dinner choices sounded particularly appealing, but the smiling waiter instead said, “Don’t worry, I know exactly what you’d like,” and true to form, brought a plate of food from childhood nostalgia that looked impressively tempting.
As I was about to tuck in, someone said something to my side. I turned to respond, and turning back a second later, saw that my plate was empty, my food eaten by the person sitting to the other side of me. “Hey, sorry about that,” the stranger said, “but this is Hell, after all.”
January 1
As a kid, New Year was always the holiday I didn’t get. I understood about midnight and the calendar and everything, I just didn’t understand why people cared — and to a large extent, that’s still true. Nothing really changes when the bells peel, if you’re British, or the ball drops if you’re American.
And yet, 2014 felt like a trial, in the end. It felt cruel and mean and like a year you wouldn’t want to run into, so any chance to run away from it and say for whatever reason it’s done, over, let’s start again feels more than welcome, no matter how imaginary or arbitrary. I’m not one for New Year Resolutions (Mostly because I rarely follow through), but I have one for 2015 itself, as if it was something that could listen: Be kind. We can put up with a lot, but it’d sure be nice not to have to.
Happy New Year, everyone.
PRO TIP FOR THE NEW YEAR
Morning Sketch
