It is morning, and today is the first day of the brand new year. There is something that I say, and I say this every year, which is I have never been one to use the saying, “New Year, New Me.”
I do not do New Year’s resolutions, not now and not ever.
This is partly because no one ever holds their New Year’s resolution for very long. No, these things are great out of the gate and as quickly as we started the so-called new regiment, these so-called resolutions tend to fade just as fast.
I’ve faded enough in my life.
Sometimes, we have to fade gracefully.
Sometimes, we have to fade away fast.
And sometimes, we wish we could just disappear.
I do not want to play the game anymore or act “As if” or be someone I am not. I do not want to set unrealistic goals, nor do I want to fall short, and slip backwards because I let myself down for not moving forward.
This is why I do not set out to do things if I know that I won’t follow through.
If “I’m in it,” then I have to be in it.
Otherwise, I’m only wasting time and space. I have no spare time nor space to waste anymore.
Either way, the world is turning.
This is true.
No matter what we do or what we say, life still happens, and no differently from when The Old Man passed away, no matter what happens to us now, the streetlights still work. The bills still come, rent is due, and deadlines are no different from what they were before.
There is a harshness that comes with everyday life.
No one talks about it, but we all know the truth.
We all know that time is moving and, in some ways, time can waste away, or if we come to a solid decision and make a choice, we can use whatever time we have left to our advantage.
NO, really.
This can happen.
I know people say that youth is wasted on the young. I know that I was always told that I would understand more when I get older. And I agree that experience is a great teacher.
I am older. I understand some things.
The rest, I guess I’ll learn more about as I get older.
(I hope)
Life is a great teacher.
Then again, so is fear. So is anger. So is heartbreak, and so are all the things we see, think, and feel.
But, rest assured: Not every tragedy is as tragic as it may or may not seem to be.
No, this is only a lesson.
But not all lessons are taught by good teachers. Sometimes, we find ourselves learning what “not” to do or how “not” to be.
This means even bad teacher can be good ones.
And that’s okay.
Today is a day of truce.
There is no room for arguments today. I will not partake in any nor will I entertain them.
Not today.
This is a special day for me. This is more meaningful than anything I can say or write about.
I am mindful of my youth and the special tradition which took place between my Father, The Old Man, and myself, when I was very young.
I go over this every year to keep this tradition alive and well; but more, I go back to a special place to celebrate the solace and to enjoy an old and longstanding connection that began when I was very small.
The Old Man and I used to go to the beach at Point Lookout.
I love this place.
This here?
This is my Church.
And this is how I honor it.
I remember my very first New Year’s Day trip.
I was bundled up and dressed as warm as could be. I would follow my Father from the rockpiles that began at Jones Inlet, and then we headed west and walked along the beach for what seemed like miles to me.
Sometimes, we would see the scallop boats heading out to the ocean.
I loved these moments.
I do not have many of them from my youth which is why this day is very important to me.
I loved the way the ocean sounded and the overhead birds, circling above, beautiful as could be on the cold morning on January 1.
The very first day of the new year.
I loved the sounds the gulls make as they fly over. We used to collect shells.
We used to walk, and The Old Man used to talk to me about when he was young. He was different on this day, as if he was celebrating something too, as if The Old Man needed to honor something of his own.
I don’t know what his thoughts were about this. He never shared them with me.
But I know this was important to the both of us.
We walked for what seemed like hours. However, who knows how long we walked for.
I was young, of course, and if my math is right, the last walk we took on the beach at Point Lookout was back in 1988, and that was 36 years ago.
I’m 52 now . .
Come to think of it, I didn’t know this was going to be our last walk.
Had I known, I wonder what I would have said to him, The Old Man.
What would I have said or done differently?
Would I have told him how much these walks mean to me?
Would I have known that I would still regard this as warmly and as lovingly as I do, 36 years later?
What would The Old Man say?
What would he remember from these walks?
Would we look at the ocean together, one last time?
Would he have seen this like I did, and value this as a truce between us?
Would he have felt the same way as I do?
Or did?
Life is crazy though. Right?
The challenge I see with people, or people we love the most isn’t that we love them. No, love is great. Love is not a challenge at all.
Love requires work though.
I think what amazes me the most is despite our love and need for closeness, we fight, or we argue, and why?
What does this do for us?
Why do we fight?
Why argue?
Why not just say, “hey, I love you and this is really on me. Not you,” and rather than show humility, why do we fear vulnerability with those who love us? Why do we allow fights to split us apart?
Seriously, why?
I am going to make my way over to the beach in a few moments.
I go to the same spot where The Old Man and I began our walk. I look out at the ocean, no differently from when I was a boy, still as equally amazed about the inlet and the ocean. I am still a child when I see the outgoing boats who brave the deep waters to make their catch and feed their families.
I will offer my sentiments to the sky and tell The Old Man my feelings. And the rest, well, the rest is between The Old Man, the tides at the shoreline, and the gulls, and me too, of course.
I will never give in to the “New Year, New Me”
I am new every day. I am still here.
I wish The Old Man was here.
I wish he saw me or saw what I have done with myself.
Not everything is great.
But hey, I’m not too shabby either.
I wish he knew the things I never had the chance to say to him.
But of course, maybe he does.
Maybe it is true when it is said that “that which is of the flesh is of the flesh and that which is of the spirit is of the spirit.”
I understand that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only change forms.
Same as I have told you that there is nothing so strong as a Mother’s love, I also say there is no energy like that of a Father and son. If energy can neither be created nor destroyed, then my Old Man is alive and well. If my dreams allow, then The Old Man is sitting in the wheelhouse of an outgoing ship, fishing the deep, and sitting in his captain’s chair with an off-white turtleneck sweater, and his captain’s hat, which I still have (somewhere).
Blessed Father, watch over me, please.
Blessed Father, watch over my loved ones.
Watch over my friends.
Bless us all with a visit, or a sign, or show us the light, and for us, the brokenhearted, or for us, the broken souls, Blessed Father, settle with us on this day of peace. Let us come together somehow, so that we can find our own truce, and make ourselves whole, together, and maybe we can be better for the brand new year.
Here’s to the new year.
Here’s to the same old routines that add up until we retire.
Here’s to the commuter trains or the railroads. Here’s to the people who have never learned social courtesy or interpersonal respect.
Here’s to the loud people who talk on their phones while others on the train close their eyes and try to sleep before they get to work.
Here’s to the coffee machine who greets me every morning and treats me as a friend.
And here’s to the music I can wire to my ears to drown out the noise of others who surround me.
Here’s to the path of life and here’s to the towels I received on the morning which began my first divorce. I say this because they were my old towels, ripped and torn and aged in some closet, somewhere, as if to be predetermined.
And here’s to the symbolized punctuation of those towels, as if to say, “Okay, kid. back to the poor house, you go. But thanks for playing.”
Here’s to the path that brought me to where I am.
Here’s to love and to lust and here’s to the drive that makes me smile or think about naughty things.
Here’s to the inspiration that makes us get up, no matter what, and here’s to whatever drive it takes to face the day.
Here’s to the secret of my endurance.
Here’s to those who live without manners. May you find your way somehow, preferably in front of me, because I would love to have a laugh when Karma shows her face.
Here’s to the bullets and landmines that I have dodged and the near misses with trouble.
Here’s to my diabetes, which almost killed me, and caused me to wake up.
And here’s to a nearly 80lbs weight loss.
Here’s to the pharmacy gods who helped me get my blood sugar down, as well as my weight and my blood pressure too.
Here’s to the injections I take, and here’s to each and every one of them. Yes, of course, I’m still afraid of needles, but hey, someone has to poke me. The needles won’t inject themselves.
Here’s to the nurses who tolerated me and here’s to the doctor to which, I swear, he must have just graduated medical school. Here’s to reaching ‘that age’ where all of my doctors are younger than me!
(Can you believe that?)
Here’s to the vanity of those who use my diabetes medication to lose weight because it is people like you who make it hard for me to get my meds from the pharmacy when I need them.
And here’s to the TRT gods, which stands for Testosterone Replacement Therapy, for those of you who are not in “the know.”
My levels were on the floor and if it were not for you, I wouldn’t be half the man I am now. That is, of course, if I am half a man—or maybe more.
Here’s to age—
Fuck you, age!
I was doing fine until you showed up.
Here’s to the angry Korean eye doctor woman who yelled at me and made fun of my eyes and literally hollered at me about how my eyes are slit-like, and she said this without seeing the irony or finding my sense of inappropriate humor funny at all.
I swear this happened . . .
What’s the matter with your eyes.
Why don’t you open your eyes? They are like little slits!
And me, as I took my face away from the machine that the Korean eye doctor lady looked through to see my eyes, I laughed at her and asked, “Are you seriously talking to me about my eyes being slits?”
By the way, I have always been insecure about my eyes— because they are slit like, especially when I was heavy. One of my eyes is shaped differently from the other. But hey, there’s a cancel culture out there — not that I’m cool enough to be canceled, but still, my apologies for the reference to the Korean eye doctor lady.
Here’s to you
Here’s to me.
Here’s to the New year, may this come in peace.
Here’s to the gym which I go to and here’s to the musclebound lunkheads who growl and make noise and slam their barbells down, like mad Neanderthals.
I can’t stand them. But I keep showing up.
Here’s to the Jiu-Jitsu classes where I get beat up by people who are much younger, as in by more than half my age, and here’s to the times when I picked up a lesson (or two) and punished them with their own medicine.
Here’s to the beach and here’s to you, Pop.
I miss you.
I will be by you soon –
To honor the solace
To honor the truce, but more than anything
To keep you alive and with me
in my heart.
This is the way I will close my journal.
But don’t worry,
You and I can talk about how we can heal together
Tomorrow . . .
The Written Addiction 