Seems impossible that it’s time for Best Of lists and “Auld Lang Syne.” Time flies. Every year faster. Time melts. When you live in a city where a collection of Dali’s work is a crown jewel, time melts is a concept confronted on a regular basis.

Three years ago, in the depths of a depression, I contracted for an Ayurvedic astrological chart, one of the few flavors of astrological readings I had not yet explored. “Yes, I see you’re depressed now,” the consultant emphasized, “but 2016 is going to be your year.” From my 2013 depression, the beacon of 2016 was dim at best.

I’ve been consulting psychics for as long as I’ve been able to drive, and astrologers since I discovered the serious side of the practice. Every reading holds an element of the same: You’re special, you came here to do good work, big work, important work. All of this was easier to believe when I was younger.

For now, all I want to do is write. For now, I’m happy that the only judge of the product is my own exacting high standards. Maybe I’m blessed not to have an impatient publisher. Alone at night, taping on a keyboard that my fingers have worn the letters from, I imagine I’m doing big work, important work, good work.

So by Ayurvedic calculations, 2016 is going to be my year. Except, Feng Shui analysis says my Water Tiger will be severely challenged by the Fire Monkey who enters in February. And my western astrologer warns that all the good she saw for clients in 2015 failed to materialize. It’s like a pall of dark has settled over the earth. Not that current events lend any credibility to that assessment. No sirree.

2016. Bring it on. My Marilyn Monroe year, where all eyes on me. Sure. Whatever. Doesn’t matter anyway. 2016 will pass in the blink of an eye. The world will still be in crisis. And the world will remain.

That is good, and big, and important for everyone to remember.