The year begins anew. Two-thousand and three, and it leaves one to ponder the resolves of one’s lives. Nine if you’re a cat. Seven if you are a lemming. 2^2^2 if you are a cyborg. And a measly one if you are unlucky enough to be a Homo Sapien. The question has been asked: What Should I Do With My Life?, and while most of us still don’t have a clue — despite moderately paying work-a-day employment — it seems ripe to ask at the dawn of a new, and possibly interesting, year, where am I and what the hell am I doing here?
I’m not doing too much wrong. At least — I would caution to believe — I’m not doing too poorly, such as the sap who was arrested in a police kaffufle in the hallway outside of our apartment last night. He was hauled out the front door in cuffs, screaming, pleading innocence, and yes, crying. I’m not there.
I’m tired of being bruised. I revealed in a lightheaded, alcohol induced rant — a time when we may be the most honest with ourselves and others, and also when trivial pursuits such as Trivial Pursuit seem almost laughably simple — on new years eve that the only part of my Judo class I really truely enjoy is the opening workout. The actual fighting part is painful, and unrewarding. I like the exercise, but tagging on the painful abuse of a martial arts lesson afterwards seems like a steep price.
I need to do something. There is no money. No reward. No hope without sacrifice. Should I save that four dollars I was going to spend on lunch, and rather put it towards a twelve-hundred dollar plane ticket to Amsterdam? Which would be more rewarding? The pleasures induced by simplicity, or the pleasures of complexity? Where are we without risk? Where are we without ourselves? Where are we without reflections of dreams and realizations that nothing is greater than trying new things and putting ourselves in compromises of our own comforts: financial security, familiarity of place and time, and the outstretched hands of someone who you think you know?
The question is, am I doing things right? And more importantly, how do I know? What is the new year — 2003, a day, a flip of the calendar — but a time to ponder our spaces in the cracks of existence. Or maybe just sit back and have a glass or two of wine.