SRF Heavy Industries

It’s been a right fucker of a decade.

I’m not particularly one to put too much stock in the raw numerology of damp rocks spinning around incandescent balls of hydrogen other than the fact that we’re still unavoidably biologically tied to certain cycles of cold and heat, light and dark — especially in the face of larger trends of general darkening of outlook and impending and ongoing upheavals. Some cycles are longer than others, and, well, less cyclical. Random-seeming.

Despite everything there were amazing high-points in the past ten years. Enough to point out that the incessant grinding of the lows weren’t enough to tank it all and make me wish I could pitch it out of history altogether. Not that that’s ever a wise move. If you forget all the bad stuff, you forget to stick it to the bastards that made it bad. And that’s especially bad if you were personally one of those bastards. And, in this case, I’m certain I was one. To a number of people. And also to myself.

Nothing unforgivable. Eventually. I hope.

Because of the numerology, people put a great store by resolutions for self-improvement, by coming out of the dark of the year with positive momentum, by having someone nearby to kiss for luck on the stroke of midnight. For luck. For a good omen for the next year. I can’t fully deny the raw psychology of omenry, even for myself, but I know firsthand, directly, how plastic and capricious time streams are. I can take a moment and stretch it out over hours. Weeks. Months, even. That’s not really a peculiar talent, but my awareness of it might be. Hard to say.

It’s my resolution to make the moment of the fracture of midnight between New Year’s Eve, 2011, and New Year’s Day, 2012, stretch and dissolve into the bulk of 2012, so that, at any point in linear consensus time, I can experience a facet of that temporal infinitesimal and expend it how I wish, on behalf of myself or anyone else present, up to the start of that very same moment next year, or maybe even beyond. I will carry those facets on me at all times, in a secret place, to be whipped out whenever a stored instant of indulgence or generosity or unbridled whim is required, spare time to be allowed to run alongside but outside of normal time, distilled and spiced and bottled and dispensed however I wish, free of judgment.

You’re free to do the same yourself, if you can figure out how.

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