Today, we'll cook black-eyed peas and collards and macaroni and cheese. There will be no cornbread, because the oven died day before yesterday and won't be repaired until later this week.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,060 words on The Tindalos Asset. It didn't really feel like a breakthrough. The next several days will tell. When I was writing Agents of Dreamland in the summer of 2015, I absolutely fucking hated it, start to finish. I hated every word. I hated it when I began, and I hated it when I was finished. Then, in January of 2016 I went back and read it again, and it was actually pretty good. So, yesterday I told myself that maybe it's a good sign that I'm already hating The Tindalos Asset.
Last night, I posted the following to Facebook: My wish for America in 2018: That it is still not too late, and that we will step back from this precipice, that we will remember who we are and always have been, that we will stop deepening the fatal gulfs that divide us, that we will focus not on what makes us different, but look to what unites us as a country. That we will put the big picture before our individual grievances. That we will remember courage and integrity, compassion and all the difficult and crucial lessons of our own troubled national history.
This morning, I added: May 2018 be less about pulling us apart from one another and more about bringing us together.
You can't blame me for wishing. Maybe you will anyway, but that's not my problem. As for New Year's resolutions, well, I resolve to spend a lot less time online, to do a better job of limiting my time on social media, and I resolve to do a better job of staying clean and sober, and I resolve to continue to fight the bitterness that threatens always to drag me under. That's a decent start.
When the clock struck midnight last night (EST, not CaST), we were watching That 70s Show (Season 4, Ep. 6). There are worse ways to ring in the New Year.