No.193. Janus. He never could bring himself to party on New Year's Eve. He much preferred to consign himself to his studio and paint right through the Auld Lang Syne night until the dawn. This New Year's picture formed itself into a massive self-portrait--or rather a double self-portrait. The trouble was the "new" portrait seemed just as fierce and dissolute as the "old" one. So much for the benediction of New Year's Resolve. Are we really doomed to repeat ourselves? And never to struggle out of prediction?

No. 192. This is Not a Christmas Tree. He rather wanted a tree--mostly because it reminded him of the warm Christmases of his past, when his children had been young and there had been a turkey the size of the family dog (he was a vegetarian now) and steaming plum pudding with hard sauce (no reason to make it just for himself). But he wasn't about to buy a tree that had been cruelly cut down specifically for this compulsory two-week period of mandatory frivolity. Nor could be bring himself to purchase a fake tree--made of god knows what horrifying space-age material--and then put it away in a box, like a body in the morgue, until next year. What he finally did was to cut himself a tree from a big piece of packing-case cardboard. His original intention had been to paint it lavishly with convincing ornaments and tinsel--an impulse that, however, predictably failed him during a moment of crumpling lassitude. All he could manage, in the end, was to haul his cardboard tree up onto the wall in a tip-down position and leave it dangling there. This was not some para-anthropological attempt to negate Christmas the way certain demonic cults mount crucifixes upside down during their anti-rituals. This was more a palpable gesture of Christmas despair, of holiday depletion. Hanging listlessly down into space, his cardboard tree hung there like a jagged tear. In the end, he couldn't bear to look at it.

No. 191. Colin and Clifford Discuss His Work. He seldom welcomed visitors to his studio, but he always made an exception for the the rare appearance there of two old mendicant, rudely philosophical cronies named Colin and Clifford. He'd met them in art school--so many decades ago!-- and saw them maybe once every five years. The funny thing about them (he actually found it endearing) was that, after he'd made them comfortable and got them coffee, they'd settle down, not to chat with him, but to look at his new work--and talk about it as if he weren't there. "There's a lot of yearning here," said Colin. "Searchlights and hot air balloons," noted Clifford. "Upwardness." "Yes," said Clifford. "You don't think our boy is waxing transcendental in his dotage, do you?" smiled Colin. "It wouldn't be like him," said Clifford. "Still, there's all this striving..." "And buoyancy" added Clifford. "Light-headedness," said Colin, with a smirk. "It's untethered," Clifford decided. "It is that," agreed Colin. "Would you two like more coffee?" he asked them. "We'll get it," grinned Clifford. "Don't get up."

v

No. 189. The Scissors of Damocles. Alright they didn't dangle over his head, but they were stacked against him: it was going to be ennui by a thousand cuts.