The year of our rabbit, 2011, has but ten days to go. From one perspective this year has seen the end of certain eras, while being translated as transitional via another, whereas a third would see the dawning of the proverbial new day. Depending on how close your gaze is, and by what clarity, this could be the definition of most years. I don't intend to have a generic opening, but there it sits, suggesting the most mundane of personal blurbs.
There was once a bar. Let's call it a pub, or perhaps an Irish pub for good measure. It served mean, strong drinks, had more than adequate seating for the conversational, and the best karaoke in town. I spent more than my share of time there, drinking, carousing, singing, and moving about in the cold of my own shadow. My tales that surrounded that place were lurid at best and depressing at worst and they all became buried under the certainty of its closure earlier this year. It wasn't alone.
One plays ode to their history time and again. We continue down roads until they dead end, wind back on themselves, or become uninteresting. The stories we weave with others in our reach follow a similar path. Some people, be they co-workers, friends, family, or whomever else, join us for such a minute part of our journey. We can't question this, or fight against it. Some people are there as mere emissaries to introduce us to our futures, or remind us briefly of our past, or merely to get us to the train on time.
Our life story is in a constant process of trimming the fat, siphoning out what matters over time.
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