This is Next Year

Things I want to post have been floating through my head but they never seem to make it here; I have long and meaningful conversations that remind me that I want to say...I can't remember.

I was running around today, totally frustrated by the fact that I had photos to pick up at Costco yet no Costco card on my person and Costco won't let you in their doors without a body cavity search and a retinal scan anyway, such goobers, and I was composing this laundry list of complaints about errand-running, and I started to think about Tom Roma. He's been on my mind a lot lately, what with my approaching New York visit and the feelings that bubble up dating back to my college years, and starting to write about him and never finishing. But, anyway, while pondering my errand rage, I remembered him saying this: "Robert Frost said poetry can be about grief, never about grievance. He has a poem called 'The Death of the Hired Man,' not 'The Tight-Fitting Shoes of the Hired Man.'" Basically all day I've been writing "The Oppressive Errands of the Prodigal Daughter." In my head, natch.

This fall would've been my 10th year in New York. I came home from India to find a driver's license renewal in my stack of mail. When did it become a year that I'd been here? Where's my book? Why haven't I learned to ice skate? In an attempt to answer all these questions and more, I'm reading this, which is either going to explain everything, or piss the hell out of me.