a world in white / gets underway

My eyes are glazed over from too much vacationing.  Concentrating on something for more than three seconds is futile.

So it looks like this blog is even more broken now.  I want to say “You have failed me for the last time” and then pull a Darth Vader long-distance chokehold, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

New Year’s Eve was probably the best one yet for me.  Well maybe not the best, considering the infamous Floyd Avenue party of NYE 2002 – 2003.  But certainly just as good, and without the 13 bags of trash to clean up afterwards.  I went to a pre-NYE gathering at Tom’s (where we watched a crappy Japanese sea monster movie), the show at Hyperlink (where the place was actually decorated nicely and devoid of beer posters), and Cornell’s house (where no one acted remotely normal, not even for a minute).  One of the best things about the night was the roaring fire on Cornell’s enormous television screen, and one of the worst things was hearing noisemakers going full blast for a good ten minutes.  I had a blast.

The next morning I woke up feeling….er, less than stellar.  I slept until 1pm, and then went to Harrison St. with Matt, where I thought it would be a good idea to try fake eggs (wrong).

I spent pretty much all afternoon at Mandy’s house, exchanging gifts and baking cookies: peanut butter dog biscuits for Jenny, and madeleines for the rest of us.  Thank goodness for lemon extract.  It is delicious.  I’m glad I spent those therapeutic hours mixing and zesting and baking with my Mandy.

Probably the best part of the long weekend was taking a super long walk last night that wound halfway around the city.  My boots are indispensable, but so are the cobblestones.  Let the wars begin.

And now for the promised links.

Alright, time for some Thoreau before the end of the workday.
I’ll leave you with some New Year poetry, posted by the incredible Miss Mary:

The Old Year

A Farewell

Where art thou going so fast, old year,
Where art thou going so fast?
There’s a tremulous sigh in the midnight air,
There are requiem whispers of wild despair–
Chant they a dirge for the past, old year,
The shadowy, vanished past?

What is thy record, to-night, old year,
What is thy record to-night?
There are lessons of life unstudied, untaught,
There are dreams of its schemes unwritten, unwrought,
And gleanings of bliss or blight, old year,
Time’s gleanings of bliss or blight.

Not unmeet were thy blessings, old year,
Blessings that brighten for aye!
There were deeds of charity, kindness and love,
Forgotten below, remembered above;
These, thy noblest incentives, old year,
Incentives that never die.

Snow-flakes are wreathing thy shroud, old year,
Winds wail thy funeral knell–
The seed time and harvest will come, as of yore,
And seasons return with their vintage and store,
But thou!—thy destiny!—death, old year
Pilgrim, ephemeral, farewell!

— Mrs. C. I. Baker, Arthur’s Home Magazine, 1880 Annual

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