This is for me, but you’re welcome to come along.

Ken sits in the warm light of a floor lamp, reading. That’s my husband. Hair mussed. Intent. He brought slippers. I brought flip-flops.

The Airbnb checks the important boxes. Welcome snacks and coffee. A bouquet of red carnations. Extra towels. A drawer full of spices. Reading lights at every seat. Power strips, galore! Did I mention a drawer full of spices? Olive oil.

We wandered around CU campus one day. There are so many new buildings, I struggled to partner what I was seeing with memory.

As for geology, the Flatirons are one of Boulder’s most distinctive features. How they show up between buildings in the near distance, disappear, and then show up again is both surprising and wonderful. They’re an imposing reminder that we are, in fact, at the foothills of the Rockies.

There’s one of them below — woman in long white parka for scale.

Boulder is a dog town. Climbing the path at Chautauqua, were we the only ones without a one? Close. The climb was moderate but I was huffing and puffing. “It’s the altitude,” I asserted.

Ken scoffed, but I turned and waved at the view below us. “It’s at least 400 additional feet.”

The afternoon light at Chautauqua offered visual glory: slabs of shadow, illegible foregrounds, clouds trying to tell us something. I took a lot of pictures.

“I could die here and I wouldn’t mind.“

Husband: “Well, I’d mind. I’d have to carry you down.“

Dinner at The Boulderado. It’s an old place, a hotel. In all our years of visiting Boulder, we’d never set foot inside. From the Airbnb, it’s a 10 minute walk and in the crisp air of late December it feels good. I forgot my gloves.

I also forgot my Daily Pages, so I’m writing in an errand/reminder notebook — in between independent bookstore addresses, random passwords, instructions on how to sign in to cure ballots in Nevada. Sigh. I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it.

December 31 — breakfast at Foolish Craig’s. I ask our cute Gen Z waiter, “How are the grits here?”

“Well, my mother’s from Mississippi, so let’s just say they’re good-for-Colorado grits.”

But it turns out they’re awful with a gross tapioca-like consistency.

I’m honest with him. “I’ve been to Mississippi, Alabama, and South Carolina, and these are something, but they’re not grits.”

So now you know, I’m a grits snob. Honestly, the grits I make at home are better. A lot better.

Lest you think me unpleasant, I refused a swap out for home fries and said the delicious sandwich was gonna be enough (and it was — sausage and egg on brioche with pickled red onions — wow).

When asked what we were doing for New Year’s Eve, I tell him, “Snacks and Beyonce Bowl.”

“Nice!”

I feel seen. Partly because Ken has no idea what Beyonce Bowl is.

I’m wandering a little befuddled at times. I almost don’t recognize Boulder. Is it because we’re staying north of Pearl on 18th St. instead of on Arapahoe somewhere? Or maybe sleep deprivation is getting to me.

Or maybe it’s the overlay of an imagined city. For a couple of years, I wrote many fictional scenes set here. Contemporary scenes, set during lockdown. There’s a band of wild women who appear and disappear, all wearing orange linen tunics. They show up in the fields near Chautauqua or over by the library, and they dance. Wild ecstatic dancing. And then they melt back into the landscape. Nobody knows where they go. Nobody knows who they are, even. Maybe if we tool over to Boulder Creek and campus, the imaginal map and the real one will overlap? (Yes, they did — to my great relief).

Notes written on New Year’s Day 2025: Who goes there? What ghost? What friendly ancestor or malignant spy from the future? We have our work cut out for us. Number one, learn to run alongside the apathy and despair. Number two, stop telling yourself nothing you do matters. Number three, self-care. Number four, write. 

For for instance, write about the Irish psychology of sabotage.

(Wait. Haven’t I already?) 

I enter the New Year with some of the usual questions. What do we share online and why (like this endless post)? Do we spill? How much is revelation and how much curation? I’ve often thought over the years that absent social media I’d be more productive or maybe even, happier. More contained, certainly.

Hard to say. I value the visual record. I love my online friends. 

Speaking of online friends, this is directed to you. Last night, I dreamt that Jude was highlighting Saskia. She’d figured out how to animate Saskia’s extraordinary inked creatures. I was amazed. “Saskia will be famous now,” I think and also feel a little jealous.

Note: Saskia tells me she has animated her work. So maybe in the dream, that’s what Jude is sharing? In any case, here’s the link:

 http://www.saskiavanherwaarden.nl

As a writer in my Tuesday group invariably announces after reading: The End.