I'm in no mood for lists — movies seen, books read, stories written, music from the past twelve months, or what have you. It was a not a terribly good year, but it was vastly better than 2012. Indeed, by comparison, 2012 makes 2013 look like a goddamn angel.
And 2014 will be what it will be, another trip around the sun.
There's very little to be said for yesterday. It was all errands. But at least it got me out of the house. We had to go to the bank, and I fucking hate going to the bank. It's a vile chore, genuinely a necessary evil. No euphemism there. Then we retrieved Michael Zulli's paintings from iolabs in Pawtucket. And there was the market. And there was a trip to Lowe's.
The sky was low and dark and hard. Sometimes there was a brighter spot to suggest the sun.
The word that kept coming back to me yesterday was despair. Mostly, the word attached itself to the squalor that rings Providence. The streets are despair, all despair. And I avoid those dirty, tattered streets as much as I can. Keep to College Hill and Downtown and tiny bits of Federal Hill and the Armory. Slivers of the latter two. Rhode Island is awfully fucking small without having to avoid large portions of it. But I carry my own despair.
The only bright spot (beside that sun smudge) was a quick stop by Paper Nautilus to spend $85 of our store credit on Henry Darger: Art and Selected Writings (Michael Bonesteel, Rizolli, 2000). A beautiful, beautiful book, not the sort of thing I could ever afford out right.
Last night I waded back into Rp in The Secret World. I do try to stay away. I try like fuck all. RP devours my life*, because I don't do that sort of thing by half measures. All or nothing, right? Yeah, when you have as shitty a relationship with reality as I do, when you are Pretend's whore, then RP is almost as good as smack. Plus, no track marks. I stayed away two months this time. And it's good to be back. I wish it weren't.
Okay. That's enough honesty for one day. See you next year.
* Not that I'm doing much with it.