112025
It’s the first time I am writing those numbers and what it feels like is that I am not better today. Or that yesterday was huge. The vision is not clearer, while the horizon has straightened out, the separation is still an illusion. But I forgive myself for this and go ahead and do the next thing with grace. Whatever it is. Laundry. A dish. I am not sure what comes after that and certainly not further down the line. It’s all a mystery. The other word for the unknown. The more magical perhaps poetic language for the unseen things that lay before us, for us.
I haven’t written here for a while. Since I’ve been writing by hand, I’ve been writing less about everything that happens. Maybe it’s not a coincidence, and in that case, maybe it’s because I am not channeling from the same terrain. Like a land animal. I’m not in flight from thousands of feet above my life or swimming in the depths of a blue planet, like a foreigner foraging for something familiar — as above so below. I look for keys to the future in everything and immediately feel like a tourist trying to understand the dialect of another tongue.
Fonz and Luna and Rafi walk off down the beach hand in hand to return to something they started to make the other day. Luna says it’s for me and that’s why I cannot join them.
Last night, I’m the only one that stays awake until midnight. Like a watchdog or a town crier. The whole house is quiet and I listen, but quickly learn that you can’t hear a whole year ending let alone the beginning of another. I wonder if instead it’s so loud none of us can hear anything at all. Or it’s so silent we can’t even feel it happening. But it does.
Before we said one last fuck you to 2024, I gave each of them, and myself, a new notebook to record what we are releasing and calling in at this cresting of a wave, where time folds into itself and becomes nothing. An unrecordable measurement of life. Fonz gets a grizzly bear, Rafi a sea turtle, Luna an elephant, and me a hummingbird. I buy us all new pens and wrap the new notebooks in small brown paper bags. I hand them out at the beach before the last sunset of the year. A year that took us into a very long night, bifurcated by life-ending and life-giving polarities, so layered on top of one another I couldn’t begin to tell any of it apart until now.
Luna asks us how to spell each word she puts in her notebook which gives us a clear outline of each of her sentiments. I decide that she is casting a spell into the cold last minutes of December air. Rafi decides to keep some of hers private and this is a predictable choice. Fonz lets me read his while we are still at the beach and the girls are dancing down at the shore. They do this, they dance at the shore. A glassy body of fierce and freezing water. They eventually go in and I imagine the Pacific Ocean baptizing them into their very own religion. A sisterhood made of continuous solstices, where the dark makes way for the light over and over again.
Fonz and I watch from a huge piece of driftwood. I tell him that it’s been an honor to care for him through this, and it has. That kind of trust is the marrow of intimacy and if there’s anything I am in search of in this life, it’s for my connections to be so safe, that we can hold each other’s hearts and find our way back to shore like fog horns and lighthouses and giant whales and homes at the center of the great mysteries of our lives. Ascending and descending over and over again like an ouroboros or years ending and beginning all at once.