Out of all the things I lose each day—my keys, my hat, my sweater ... my sobriety, my dignity—the thing that bothers me the most is a lost voice. And I'm not talking about a spell of the hoarseness, though that can indeed be dreadful awful stuff. I'm talking about the hollow ache of a flow turned trickle, like the belly of the Queens Midtown tunnel early on a Sunday morning.

Losing the voice is worse than losing the story.

But finding the voice—oh, finding the voice!—it's like the secret taco-heaven handshake.

It's like the smooth sake, chilled and overflowing into a box, and served up with ancient Japanese tradition, deep inside the pounding, underground decibel heartbeat. Twice.

It's like the Manhattan skyline from Queens at 7 am Sunday morning, strong and irrefutable and painted purple and orange by the crusty-eyed sun, the buildings holding quiet communion with the East River. Both oblivious to your hangover. Both entirely unsympathetic. Nonplussed.

These things swirl and steam and spit. And for a second I can see it: The great delivery mechanism. The burping, bubbling well of raw shit spewing.

And it occurs to me that I need to do more of this in 2009—Connect with old friends. Pursue old interests. Re-examine old careers. Discover places that remind me of the old places, like my new favorite bar in Brooklyn. And sometimes doing these things can bring back the voice.

People often take change to mean doing something new, especially during this time of year. Finding new passions, new places, new people, new loves. And all that can be good and positive and meaningful. I'm not knocking new.

But sometimes it's simply about finding a few old things you lost. And remembering why you felt so good about them in the first place.

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