To be polite, bugger off, 2019!

Fuck off, 2019.

That’s my tongue-in-cheek (or not) overall sentiment about the decade’s final year.

I don’t do retrospectives or resolutions. Not properly anyhow.

I do however reflect and contemplate quite considerably. I have goals and changes for the better in mind for 2020.

Toward that end, I haven’t a defined road map — perhaps I should.

I’ve not outlined a step-by-step course from Point A to B to C, which successful folks and “life coaches” and achievers (Tony Robbins for instance) agree is imperative, the path forward.

I’m Pisces. I tend to fly by the seat of my pants. Rather swim by the fin of my tail.

Fuck off, 2019.

It’s been a … profoundly traumatic year.

I paused to ensure the right word. It is.




Illuminating in the same way that stepping across a minefield illuminates the location of explosives.

No stories here. No explanations — long-winded or short.

2019 has been on par in sheer intensity and gut-wrenching soulful upheavals as 2017, when a significant unidentified individual passed. I’ve neither processed nor recovered, not even close.

In 2019, the events, losses, that which was made known and brought to light — all involving individuals still living — cast a different shade of red and black than the loss of 2017. (In truth, 2017-19 been an intensely rugged painful 3-year run. Statistically does that bode an upturn? Hmmm …)

Death of a significant individual is grief for sure.

It is very very very hard. This I know from having walked those trails more than once.

Death of a relationship with an individual who’s living is harder.


There’s a finality to the former. A certainty that you shan’t  meet again. You shan’t see him or her walking in through the door. And yes, that’s part of what makes physical death so painful — for the living.

But the important person who still lives … who still walks the earth yet for whatever cause and reason, just or otherwise, “kills you off” … that’s a stabbing to the heart, a twisting of the knife.

Death by rejection hurts more than death by another’s shedding the body.

There, I’ve said enough. Perhaps too much.

So, 2019, fuck off.

I know you’ve had your highlights. Your good points. Positive developments. Including a marvelous train trip that won’t be forgotten. Is held dear. Is one for the books.

These good things do not go overlooked. Or undervalued.

Yet the candle flame or match struck that I hold lit beneath a mountain of rubble after an earthquake cannot be seen.

Not by a rescuer. Not by a best friend or soul mate.

Not even by God, who long ago it was established doesn’t give a shit, stands back and allows incredible human suffering.

All-powerful all-knowing force who won’t intervene. Some helpful loving guy, eh?

The only person who can see that little flame beneath this HEAVY unmovable and unmoving rubble is me.

I like this imagery. Should contemplate it as 2019 ticks down into finality.

In 26 days.

633 hours.

38,013 minutes.

But who’s counting?