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January 2, 2009The night is youngbut the year is oldAS OLD AS OLD GETSbefore it drops dead. Even the leap second has leapt like a fawn across the lawn. If the ball drops any further it’ll resurface in China. IT’S 2009as good a year as any to live life right. How telling–I mistyped “right” as “write.” That about sums me up. What’s life about? Writing about it. What’s living life right? Writing about it. All resolutions amount to, I’m going to live right this year, writing. Right? But wouldn’t life be about living itself? Does the life in you want to spend itself writing? Well, yes, now that I ask. I suppose I could be strolling the Left Bank with Monsieur Right instead of invoking it on this page, but who said writing is not living? It’s what you’re doing at the time. You’re occupying your mind, you’re creating something, you’re enjoying yourself, you’re keeping yourself company, you’re doing something you prefer doing to something else. Like working for a living. It’s my tradition. Writing on the night of the new year. If the timing’s right, to start a new journal. If not, just to start the year writing. Gots to, gots to. It’s what I love to do. It’s like my secret rendezvous with a lover, and I LOVE BEING IN LOVEOh, I love being in love. Don’t you just love being in love? Isn’t it great being in love? Bette Midler, in “The Rose” utters some such sentiment. Recently, I had occasion to do the same, on a night of blue shadows in Oaxaca. “I wish I were in love,” I sighed, to the woman (a fellow writer) beside me. Well, duh. What gal wouldn’t want to be in the arms of someone she loves on a moonlit Mexican night? Tonight, on the last night of 2008, there was a rare appearance in the twilight sky of the crescent moon, Venus, Mercury and Jupiter, brilliantly white and bright. Seems like a good omen for a new year. Good for love? Or for howling at the moon? Stay tuned. NEW YEAR’S EVEhas always been, to me, the most adult night of the year. It’s the night to glam out and raise a glass, dance and laugh. I shower in champagne on New Year’s Eve. Nevertheless, most years, I usually spend a QEH (quiet evening at home) in Philadelphia with my sister Cruella and her partner, Xena, clinking in the new year with the designer champagne flutes I got at the AIA store on Sansom St. to celebrate my sister’s handsome settlement after losing her job as a computer programmer. It was an occasion for much joy. As it was when just now when I couldn’t remember the name of the American Institute of Architects. I was thinking the AAA but it sounded wrong. Once when I worked for architects I’d mentioned the AIA in conversation to someone and he’d asked, what’s the AIA? I dreamed of a life in which I didn’t know what the AIA is. Well, OK, I still know what it is, but it’s irrelevant to my life. Hell with them. IT’S A TOSHIBA KINDA YEARI would be much more impressed with Toshiba had they simply sponsored the Times Square Ball Drop rather than had TOSHIBA TOSHIBA TOSHIBA TOSHIBA TOSHIBA TOSHIBA emblazoned on the tower as the ball dropped. Similarly, Nivia face cream distributed oversize hats to the crowd with world-wide advertising plastered on them. Who didn’t see coverage of Times Square, and who didn’t see those hats? I instantly thought, like some brainwashed stooge, hey, I think I’ll buy a Toshiba computer and slather it with Nivea! It’s a fucking corporate new year! So what’s new about it? AT MIDNIGHTmy sister and I hugged, and her chihuahua/pug dog Chachi leaped at me and followed as I moved toward the porch, jumping and yelping and trying to bite my butt. Got too close to her mom. So as I opened the door to yell “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Chachi was behind me causing a ruckus as I was fending her off and yelling “HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! THANK GOD!” Then she tried to cozy up to me but I wasn’t having any of it. Now they’ve all filed off to bed and I’m alone down here with 2009. Thank God. Because I had to write something. This.
The author had to write something. This. ------------------------------------------------------------ With 2008 we're done
The author has written her page a day for today. copyright Alexandra Jones 2009 |
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