Aye, this's what passes for thrilling on my holiday eve, but don't take that as a complaint. The loved ones I love are safe and hopefully warm and that's enough, and it's so much gravy on the ice-cake if I get to write to "you," too. Maybe I'll write to U2 while I'm at it. ("Dear Bono, what the eff happened, mahn? And when did it dawn on you to appropriate Mark Arm's style of sunglasses...?)
2008 was a great year for politics and a tough year internally. But here's one thing I've noticed that's blog-worthy and un-maudlin: 2008 seems to be the year I've put down the gtr and picked up the pen (again.) Writing hasn't seemed so important or so fulfilling since Sewanee. I don't know what it means, and I don't know where it'll go, but web-blogging is not going to be enough for 2009, and I'm not sure a dissertation will be either... So what does that mean? Do I re-visit the faux-Beckett, semi-autobio-roman? Do I turn back to churning out poems - actual poems, the kind I actually revise/edit/try to publish? Or mebbe the world needs a mystery novel featuring socialist-stoner-art-sleuths? You think? I don't know, but it's time for something, and that passes for a "positive" in my mind.
That's it, friends. I'll soon bury this unsolicited-but-necessary bit of solipsism/sentiment beneath a far more characteristic bit of non sequitur whatever... but I needed to perpetrate this exact spew just exactly now. And as always, froonds, there's nobody to whom I'm better fit to spew than "you."
Finally, OG regulars: Merry Holidays. I love you jerks!