In 3 Minutes it Will Be A New Year and I Will Be Living My Dream

I received a box full of old magazines in the mail the other day, mostly New Scientist and some Paste.

It was the best present I got this year.


The moon, though full days ago, still looks too big and golden for this time of year. It is tennis in lieu of golf, a summer moon, something for the beaches.

Tonight is New Year’s Eve and I’m at home reading a 2010 article about an indie rock band I’ve never heard of.

Next week, I’m going back out to California to spend a week at an Airport Westin for a mandatory orientation to an academic endeavor. The whole thing seems strange and theoretical to me right now.


I will smile and I will be wonderful.

I will be myself.

Even at the hotel by the airport, it will be an adventure.

Everything is an adventure.

these are ghosts on the sidewalk

Earlier this evening, I made a vow, a resolute vow…a resolution.

I will not be so serious.

Fuck. That sounds really serious.

The Baby New Year pie

The Baby New Year Pie

When I realized that the old traditions had lost their zest, that the old songs rang out flat and canny (which is the opposite of the delightful uncanny and which means totally unsurprising and utterly inelegant) I decided to make some new traditions.

The pie was outfitted with extra dough to have hair and eyes, a mouth all set on a round, round face. It was an apple pie, to symbolize beginnings and we ate The Baby New Year Pie with gusto, swallowing the sweet potential of the coming months, it feeding us so we could feed it.


Is it hysteria that makes me laugh or irreverence or simply lack of a better option than to be deeply thrilled by the whimsical fuckery (attribution of that term goes to a time traveller) that has spun this world to be such a clever and cunning, dull downy place.

…foxes in the woods.

There is something about language that grabs hold of me sometimes and I wonder about the term “word salad.”

Take right this very instant for, um…instance…

I pictured a fox with the word cunning, and saw a feather or a tuft of fur in downy, found a small den at the edge of a field that was golden and green and the trees were rich brown/grey and the shade was something you could drink, sips between the light kisses of damp leaves…

…and the words themselves, foxes in the woods, were beautiful to me. The F and the ox and the slowness of oo, the sharp s of plurality.

Yet, to some, such a love of language and splinter thought (FLIGHT OF IDEA) would be deemed purely ill, totally disordered, a problem.

Oh, the death of poetry that is dealt by neuroleptics.

What if everyone who seemed to be “at risk” for schizophrenia were told that they were, deep down, golden hearted poet architects struggling to be born?


These are the things I am serious about.


It’s awful how songs get stuck in our heads, isn’t it?

I don’t even like that song; It feels amphetamine to me.

Okay, fine, I’m not exactly running.

I’m sort of sitting.

I’m sitting out a dream?

In 2013, I will not sit out any more dreams.

I haven’t quite found my footing yet in the particular dream that I’m dreaming.

As soon as I get close, and I can feel it so close sometimes, a simple sentence or two away, I get tired and I tell myself, “This is enough. If you choose that, you’ll compromise this.”

However, I want to have my cake and eat it, too.

That is my dream.

It is not my dream to be an academic.  Academia is a game for the privileged. The thing that separates the academics from the rest of society, what establishes the existence of academia (the same could be said for science) is that the good players know the right references and tools, can employ them with the grace, style, and precision that comes about from natural talent and learned technique, luck and charisma.

I can do that, but it isn’t my dream.

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(I don’t know what that says.)

I wish that I didn’t have this tendency to break down every human cultural interaction into a exchange of symbol, a dynamic economy of meaning and role.

Most of human interaction is, however, just play-talk. The same conversations had over and over again, the fiscal cliff falling into the space left by the recession, names shifted, a shocking tragedy too-familiar, a philosophy argued endlessly over olives in the kitchen.

Is it a disorder to be bored by small talk?

my ten yearold took this photo

I do like to listen to people though, to grab ahold of some detail, to tease out some vaguely perceived sadness or wonder in their voice, imagining who we all might be if we weren’t so trapped in who we are.

I like to watch people’s faces when they talk.

Some people find this unnerving.

In 2013, I am going to be myself more and more and more.

It’s taking some time to figure out just what that entails, but I have it on good authority that – if I am myself – my dreams will come true.

it's all about balance.

Wait, my dreams are already true. Everyday, I live my dream.

my ten year old took this photo


It’s been raining for the past 3 days. I predict that, eventually, it will stop.

That is all I know for certain.

One thought on “In 3 Minutes it Will Be A New Year and I Will Be Living My Dream

  1. Pingback: Was I Where I Want To Be? | PROOF OF GOD! …and other tragedies.

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