When I was younger, predictions about the future often began with, “In the year 2020…” I cannot adequately express how old that makes me feel. Twenty-twenty also means 1970, the year I turned 14 and the year I lost my political virginity, was 50 years ago. Who remembers Kent State now?
As with past infatuations, my enthusiasm for this website has waned. I have been continuing to do my podcast, and posting something to those pages, but this blog and (especially) the Holly and Ivy pages have been sadly neglected. And isn’t it funny how we fall back on the passive voice I have sadly neglected them. There.
The week between Christmas and the New Year always has a vaguely funereal feel to me. When I was younger that feeling was largely masked by the otherworldly aspect. The week does seem like it is in a “congruent reality,” as Terry Pratchett phrased it. But I’m noticing the “end of the old” aspect more and more now. I am getting old, and I shall end.
I am trying to find some reason to be positive and have hope for 2020. I am not having much luck. I’m not seeing any signs of a restoration of sanity and civility, in the US or the wider world. There does seem to be the tiniest bit of momentum beginning in the matter of dealing with climate change, but if ever the phrase “too little, too late” were appropriate, it is there.
So I’m drifting onward, like the Fellowship on their boat journey down Anduin. I have three companions instead of eight, and two of the three are cats. And I’m not sure which of the Fellowship I best represent now. Sam, maybe. Let’s just hope I’m not Boromir.
Nevertheless, 2020 is upon us. There are fewer than 40 hours left in 2019 as I write this. So Happy New Year, regardless. Let’s hope for the best and prepare for the worst. It’s about all anyone can do.