It’s that little souvenir, of a terrible year

31 12 2016

This lyric has been trundling though my head the past few months. . .

I wonder why.

As for what comes next, well. No way out, but through.

Let’s hang on to each other in the meantime.





What a drag it is getting old

31 12 2014

Hey kids, what kind of fun are you going to have tonight?

Yer not out partying or else you wouldn’t be reading my rambling bits—so maybe you’re like me, sacked out on your (new-to-you!) loveseat, drinking beer (and maybe later, whisky) and watching bad t.v. shows and/or movies you’ve seen before, on Netflix.

Whoo-hoo!

Well, I will celebrate—not New Year’s, just the end of the evening—with my cats later. After I shut down the computer and turn off the lights, the critters run to the bathroom for big fun: Trickster yells at me until I set the faucet dribble to just the right rate of runny-ness, and when Jasper hears me scraping out the catbox (TMI?), he jumps in the tub and bats down the foam golf ball I’ve set atop the unused soap dish, and waits.

Yes, people, it is not even 2015 and I have discovered a great cat toy in the golf section!

Big Red Box Store was out of the foam cat toys, so I wandered over to the sports section on the off chance they’d have ping pong balls. No dice (which was probably good, as the noise those things make is annoying as hell), but I espied these foam golf practice balls.

I was intrigued.

I looked at golf wiffle balls, but came back to the foamers. They were light. They had give.

They were cheaper than the foam cat balls.

Sold!

Now, if you’ve used the foam cat balls, you know they kind of go dead after awhile, and then dry out completely after a greater while. That may happen with these things—lemme see if I can find a picture. . .okay, here one is:

Only mine’s in yellow, because orange isn’t my color. (Okay, yellow isn’t either, but but that’s all they had. And besides, it makes it easier to find underneath the new-to-me loveseat.)

. . . but the denser material makes me think it may last longer.

The real bonus is that, unlike the foam cat-balls (stop thinking that, you perv), these can get wet without getting gross. Which means I can leave in the tub for Jasper to play with without worrying about fungi or general disgusting-ness.

Since I’ve put one in the tub for Jasper, he now expects me to bat one around with him for 5 or ten minutes every night before bed.

Exciting, I know. And I wonder why I don’t have boy- or girlfriend.

Anyway, happy feckin’ new year to youse, however you may celebrate it.





All is quiet on New Year’s Day

1 01 2014

I know how to leave.

A job, a city, a relationship: I can book it with a handshake, a grin, a fare-thee-well, and I’m gone.

I also know how to deal with the run-up. I like rehearsals and planning and while packing is an enormous pain in the tuchus, I’m pretty good with the clearing out and stashing away.

All of this is to say is that I prefer the eves to the day (and not just because I’m a night person). It is the time before that I’m accustomed to, and the anticipation that I enjoy. I’m not bothered by endings—I know everything ends—and, against much of my own agoniste sensibilities, I take the view “it’s done; let’s go”.

Beginnings, on the other hand, I’m not so great at. You’d think that I can end because I know what comes next, but the coming-next is the burden, not the gift, of the ending.

New Year’s Eve? So long and farewell. New Year’s Day?

Oh shit, another year.

But let us take a more poetic look at the back and the forth; from Agha Shahid Ali’s A Fate’s Brief Memoir:

4.

There between the planets the cobwebs thicken
Depart now. Spiders look for my heart lest
I forget the final wreck of all that’s human.

Farewell—and if thou livest or diest!
What poverty lets death exert its affluence?
The earth will receive you, poor honored guest,

and I minding my threadbare subsistence—
poor host who could offer you nothing. What brocades
spun from gasps I tear to polish our instruments. . .

threads searchlit, the universe dazzled, burnished blades. . .
Feel a new sun pounding—Dear Heart, this once!
See the famished sighs I’ll lock into braids.

Don’t forget this sight when by desolate chance
from your breath Belovéd! this evening fades.