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| You can never go home. |
| 12.31.08 (9:32 am) [edit] |
People get nostalgic at this time of year. Individuals long gone suddenly appear, like clock work. I guess an end, a benchmark of sorts, beckons even the less reflective to take a backward glance, to become wistful about what's come and gone and what's awaiting them in the new year. It's a time of measuring. It's a time of ghosts. The souls of whom, ever skyward bound with every burst of firecracker, seem never to quite make it. Or maybe I'm just being fanciful again. I try to ignore calendars when it comes to sizing up how I'm doing. Of course, I ignore calendars on just about everything else, too. I don't buy into the idea of celebrating something because it's on the calendar; because it's when we're supposed to... I almost forgot it was New Year's Eve today, had it not been for the random soft popping of early fireworks ambling up the hillside. These days, it's all about lists in the media. The year in photos, top ten this, top twenty that, most outrageous things of who said what about so-n-so, how many times, when and where. The year in music. The year in political gaffes. Today, I'm thinking about playing badminton. We're headed for a breezy seventy degrees Fahrenheit with no clouds in the sky. |
