The passing of the year finds me, like many others, in a reflective mood. I wish to make the most, or at least much, of what remains to me. Time, of course, which, now that I’m as old as the hills, accelerates at a dizzying pace. But also people. 2023 has not been kind in that respect. It knocked around many people I care about. I survive with only minor bruises, but a relative especially dear to me lies in mortal danger as I write this.
I’ve known her all her life and longer than anyone else in mine. We share memories of things no one else has seen. We are what makes lifelong friends so comfortable, so valuable: witnesses to each other’s lives. I pray she doesn’t suffer; yet, when she is gone, all that we knew goes with her, and I am incomplete.
Other friends are fragile, hospitalized, or at risk of being so. A good day now is one in which I hear no bad news of them. Knocking wood in puzzlement at my own good health, I thank my parents for bequeathing me both sturdy genes and the discipline not to undermine them. It helps, of course, not to have an addictive personality, though I confess I never met a cuisine I didn’t like.
I’m fortunate too with the doctors in my life, particularly a new one, a cardiologist who is among the smartest, most charismatic people I’ve met. He came highly recommended, and as to his bedside manner, let’s just say I want to marry him and bear his children. Will I follow his advice? You betcha.
This year leaves me frightened not only for the health of my friends and family, but for that of this divided nation. Never since I’ve been alive, never, I believe in our history, has so much depended on the outcome of an election, (and its possible aftermath).
Thankfully, I have the distractions of books, music, and movies. I would add theater, but the pandemic makes me reluctant to resume that habit of a lifetime, though I’m tempted by the reviews for Boop. Christmas brought a welcome array of novels, biographies, and Eddie Muller‘s handsome revision of The Art of Noir.
One of my favorite times between the covers has been Reynaldo Hahn’s memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt. Hahn knew everyone in fin de siecle Paris, and was a chum (with benefits) of Marcel Proust. What a treat to follow the antics of this extraordinary group. It led me to order several CDs of Hahn’s music.
Movies, on the whole, were a bit more interesting than in recent years, and I have some catching up to do. The last two I streamed were Maestro and Saltburn. Maestro may be overlong, and yes, there are things I would tweak about Cooper‘s performance (mainly the forced effect of his voice in a lower register), but Carey Mulligan is simply dazzling, and not to be missed. It’s certainly not the bore that some social media sites are ranting about.
Full of twists and surprises, Saltburn is well cast and acted, especially by Barry Keoghan, who does the nicest little naked dance through room after room that you’d ever want to see.
Mornings, if I’m careful to avoid news of endless, merciless wars, new legal barriers to reasonable freedoms, and crime close to home, the paper lifts my spirits with a tricky crossword and the funnies, notably “Pickles,” “Brewster Rockit, Space Guy,” and “Mutts,” (the fate of Guard Dog had me on the edge of my rocker for weeks).
Finally, this was the year I got up my nerve to travel again. Back in Mexico, to the spot where John and I went so often, I basked in the company of friends I’d begun to fear I’d never see again. But I did!
And so, Happy – or at least less scary – New Year to us all.
Me Now 