For some reason, this new year feels precarious. Or, rather, I feel precarious, like I'm balanced out at the front of a wave, being pushed along, uncertain where I�m headed. Yet, as I always feel pretty much that way, I don't know why this year�s uncertainty would feel stranger than any other.

I didn�t make formal resolutions this year, owing to lack of concentration. I feel vaguely unsettled about making resolutions today, on the third day of the month�like they won�t take, or that they�ll wither and die, like sweet peas planted too late in the season. (Yes, that is exactly right�my precious, precious dreams, withering like fragile sweet peas whose fragrance is never to be enjoyed by happy, um, skipping children.)

Were I to make resolutions, they�d probably have something to do with discipline. Not the adult-personal-ad kind of discipline, but like, the more boring sort, self-discipline.

On December 30, I received a package in the mail that made me slightly sad. It was a padded envelope, addressed to me in my own handwriting, with no return address. I recognized it as one of my portfolios, but owing to the lack of return address, I wasn�t sure who�d sent it back. I opened the envelope to see a small black book of my illustrations, but there was no note enclosed. Ah, sweet mystery of rejection! After a moment, I realized that it was the first book I�d ever sent out, nearly two years ago. I knew which company had rejected it�they�d sent back another of my books six months or so ago, but that one had included a misspelled, crookedly photocopied rejection letter that allowed me a fleeting, futile sense of superiority to its sender. Is it ludicrous to hope that my first portfolio would meet with acclaim, or even a nod of recognition? Obviously, and obviously I know that, and knew it when I sent out the book. But without hope, why send anything at all?

Getting back my first portfolio without even a form letter enclosed made me feel slightly melancholy. I sat at the James Joyce with the Keelhauler, drinking flattish beer served by the indifferent bartender, and feeling not even sad, but resigned. I�d already written off that portfolio as lost in the mail, so it wasn�t like I expected it back, but when it materialized, I realized I�d been holding onto a shred of hope that some art director had kept it on file, pending lucrative contract preparation. It was a minor disappointment, but it served to punctuate the year�s end with a period rather than an exclamation point.

When I look back on that last paragraph, the word �resigned� seems too strong for my actual feelings about the returned portfolio. I don�t know a good synonym for �bummed, in a neutral sense,� because that phrase is illogical. I think what I�m trying to say is that I know I should be slightly disappointed, but my actual feelings were so neutral that I fear I�ve slipped into indifference. I�ve sent out several portfolios, and gotten each of them returned. Knowing that rejection is by far the greater likelihood than acceptance, I send each book out without allowing myself more than a shred of hope. Yet, apathy does not breed success, and each time I get a book back, I have to force myself to send it out again. I suppose that if I have a resolution to effect, it is this: I resolve to care about my artwork, even if no one else appears to. And, because that sounds unintentionally self-pitying, I will further resolve to create art that makes me happy. And with that, I have sunk firmly into the realm of the dork king, so I�ll leave it at that, before I have to put on a red hat and recite the �When I am an old woman I shall wear purple� poem in front of a mirror and my 18 cats.

Star of the day. . .Mads Bjerke