In an obligatorily feeble attempt to validate my existence and exfoliate the skin of 2004 I, at the last minute, ventured north to the Woodlands in search of cheap thrills and observance of the New Years birth. This morning (as I sit, last years coffee in hand) it’s a different year, and the influx of lofty, ill-fated resolutions makes me think some people had emerged into the New Year like an old sinner surfaces from the Holy waters of baptism (when in fact a sparkly ball falls only to usher in an astonishing day of exercises in consumer capitalism).
I remain sheathed in the same skin of yesteryear, at times wishing I could get out, but usually just wishing someone could get in.
The party, with all its seemingly unique and random events was as gelatinous and ubiquitous as the million others out there, and as the multitudes (united under central standard time) cry of “Happy New Year!” reached crescendo in an ephemeral moment of jubilee I scoffed and found an empty room to reconsider my personage.
Resolutions? Please! Everyday is flooded with resolutions that only leave me drowning in frigid seas of stubbornness, paralyzed, unable to change a damned thing. It's a wheel, a vicious cycle locked in rotation around an obstinate epicenter of immobility.
A Symbolic Prose Digression
A fog had crawled into the city “on little cat feet” and as I drove northward last night the city had been displaced by its gentle, thick exhale. The skeletal skyline I offered so many glances and stares alike to had succumbed to the ominous cloak, leaving only a fluorescent ferris wheel in view, piercing the night with its disjointed illumination. It seemed as though a horizontal falling drop of light had splattered against the night, transmogrified into neon tentacles, brilliantly stretching, only to tenderly bleed into the existential void.
So in these first few hours of 2005 I’m dreaming myself an electric tentacle, burning against the cloak of nothingness only to melt into something less. Take that Kierkegaard.
Epilogue
Symbolic existential motifs aside, the night was cool because I met some fellow Bobcats who I plan to hang out with in the New Year and also got to see John and his girlfriend Amanda. They seem to be good for each other and I find it to be a good match (like that matters!—yeah, I’m the Judge Judy of relationships and everyone is holding their breath to hear my verdict).
Amanda had some great stories about Dave Matthews who is, alas, taller than me—also he can properly tune a guitar and keep the strings intact—strike two! Anyways, it was great to see an old friend and make a new one.
There was even talk of a rendition of last years hit song “Two thousand and what for?” that I wrote to usher in 2004. But what with the broken guitar string, I was done before I even started—a bad omen to say the least.
And you can't build a house of leaves/And live like it's an evergreen/It's just a season thing/It's just this thing that seasons do/And that's the way this wheel keeps working now
-John Mayer
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