ON WEANING; or, I THINK YOU LEFT YOUR 2010 AT MY APARTMENT

ultimately, yesterday couldn't have turned out to be that bad of a day -- regardless of the late start and then the early bending of my willpower to a mimosa with breakfast -- because the sun was out again and i had a lead on a free sunday times at the end of a longish bike ride.

i got my paper and read a book that i didn't particularly like. probably i should have sat at a table instead of in that easy chair so that i could have written some letters and felt like a good, productive person starting a good and productive new year, especially since i'd started on it later than i'd planned. what's more, my aunt and uncle really came through with the gift card to biketiresdirect.com, where i quickly bought a replacement for the shoe buckle i broke in the fall that took me down from the insolent hubris of too much fun in 2010. they deserve a well penned thank you.

so probably it wouldn't have been better had i sat at a table, because i doubt i could have penned something especially well in my increasingly desolate mood. the party at 2010 was fun, and my "attainable" resolutions for 2011 were seeming more and more like lowered expectations. i still plan on keeping the chain on my commuter cleaner -- and that might in fact spur me on to greatness (it's good for morale, at any rate) -- but that resolve wasn't at all immediately inspiring. it seemed damning to toast negative capability with decaf, so i took my paper to the pub.

the beer no doubt helped, but the times seemed conceived that week to lift my spirits. mine, specifically, that is, in that not only was the theme of the puzzle "works in translation," but the cover of the book review showed a graphic that read "words about words about words" which led into a headline of "why criticism matters." i haven't yet read any of the essay excerpts included in that feature (full versions are available online), but i maintain hope that they advocate the belief that criticism should be encouraged and appreciated of its own right, the art of critics and not of dabbling fiction writers, as was so eloquently described in this post at maîtresse. maybe this year is going to build on the best parts of last one, after all. grasping and solipsistic? well, beer can't do everything, and after two full weeks of looking exceptionally good in pants only to find myself back in ordinary time i needed something. it happens every year, and it's all the sadder for its commonness. we're sorry.

beer can't do everything, but it tries sometimes too hard to make things better, so i thought it best not to linger at the pub and to ride home to take the decorations down from the tree. it wouldn't take even one-tenth of the duration of an average feature length film, but i thought i should have some distraction anyway to keep from fixating on the dismantling of the holidays and so went to the rental shop to find something sympathetically moody. the cover of "angel" gave me no reason to think that it would suit me on that front, but i rented it because i love françois ozon. (sorry joss whedon fans, it wasn't that "angel.")

the tree was bare before the previews were over, but, stripped though it was, i had nothing more to do with it until i could get it to the boy scout troop that's "recycling" them this coming weekend at 102nd and glisan so i let it stay in the living room. i had a movie to watch -- and the epiphany isn't until next sunday anyway.

"angel" opens in wintertime in early twentieth century england, which meant for me a dickensonian charm that kept me afloat in cheeriness until angel, a young woman writer alive primarily in her imagination, could find fame and success and marry esmé, a gambler, drinker, expressionist painter and lothario played by michael fassbender (yes, he takes it off), who is the contrast by which we're given to see the paucity of angel's romanticism (and of our own a christmas carol fantasies). she has such a nice house, though, and so many dresses! i probably wouldn't read her books, but she certainly makes the dream of the fallen aristocrat (actual or imagined) come true. esmé's side of the story is necessarily bleaker, but both characters raise important questions about knowledge and art, even if the realities they lived were never the same.

grasping and solipsistic? whatever. that's what got me to sleep (and ozon isn't anything to kick out of bed), which i realized was the solution from the beginning. had i just continued sleeping, i wouldn't have had to regret oversleeping my agenda. so i'll resolve to keep at that. come find me in bed. i'll deal with 2011 on another morning.