New Year’s Eve. A cold dark night, indeed. Took a chopstick in the eye two days ago, and am still smarting from it. The redness is leaving, but still having focus issues. No white flashes, which is good. But will look after it all the same. Had a detached retina in the same eye ten years ago and don’t want to revisit that for anything.
Hanging back tonight, watching a little TV. Cooking some pork chops and opening a bottle of wine. Looking forward to 2015, though to be honest I don’t expect to stay up long enough to greet it. Still too tired and beaten down from the crud.
Time to move ahead into a new book. Unbroken, maybe. Started to revisit Denis Johnson’s Nobody Move, and also Don DeLillo’s Underworld, but need to find something fresh to round things out. Finished the 1930s volume on story writing—not your rah-rah, let’s-meet-over-tea, self-help manual—and found it all the more enjoyable because of that.
Movie tomorrow? A long walk? Who knows? Wish we could snowshoe, but with a bad case of bronchitis stalking around the house, there isn’t much chance of it happening.