As it so happens, I find that I am not above writing out my New Year reveries, which is testimony to the fact that I am not the proverbial party girl this year…or any year for that matter. I am NOT complaining, or if I am than I am doing so with a much-displaced sense of grandeur. What is it about the holidays that prevents us from treating them with the blatant disregard that we offer to almost every other day? Is it the fact that we are all too aware that others are out partying it up all over the world?
If it is the latter, that still shouldn't be such a pickle. People party all the time and I am always not one of them. Why does it bug me on New Year's Eve? Perhaps my downfall is the fact that I refuse to immerse myself in the holiday blues with dedication, which is somewhat sadder than being sad on said day. There is an age-old contrived mechanism for the would-be depressives to attain new lows on New Year's Eve: Joni Mitchell records, fire places, frost and morbid TV films on Hallmark. I refuse to allow myself this treasure. I, instead resort to watching an animated Disney feature, this year its 'Cars', with a small tub of vanilla frickin' ice cream next to my Sui Northern-warning-antonym-of-a-heater. My play list invariably involves Chuck Berry, The Beegees and this year, in memoriam, James Brown. I vehemently refuse to let the blues set in. Elvis be damned (for this one night only).
Morbidity needs to be embraced, or so say the 'oh-so wise' sects of our post modernist literature. Morbidity makes us achieve unattained levels of genius, they say. I am not morbid and I can't carry it even with my best effort, which I have yet to exert for anything. I can't wear plaid colours and I cant not laugh at the dilemma that is destiny. My best effort at morbidity is that I admit New Year's Eve sucks. That's it, that's all the bitter venom I can spew forth.
I subscribe very dearly to the edict 'Save the best for Last'. Thereby on my dying day I am very likely to spew forth some words of such eloquent-sage-genius that the Angel of Death, himself will have to nod his head and say 'Aaho, changa aakhiya!' Yes my Angel prefers pedestrian. Every New Years Eve forces me to look my life over, which is why I hate this blasted holiday. The Grinch and I are synonyms today, which hardly helps matters considering the fact that the Grinch mostly had dibs on Christmas - but the sentiment still applies. 'Looking my life over' isn't high on my list of priorities, which apparently is a problem. There is one song that sums up my entire couch potato, laugh-through-life, no-goals-barred philosophy on life, love and all that could come in between if I ever let it - "Cleaning Windows" by Van Morrison.
I heard leadbelly and blind lemon
On the street where I was born
Sonny Terry, Brownie Mcghee,
Muddy waters singin 'Im a rolling stone'
I went home and read my christmas humphreys book on zen
Curiosity killed the cat
Kerouacs dharma bums and on the road
Whats my line?
Im happy cleaning windows
Take my time
I'll see you when my love grows
Baby dont let it slide
Im a working man in my prime
Cleaning windows...
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