Happy New Year, dear reader!
I don’t typically make the changing of the calendar year a big deal, but typing “2023” just now felt great. See, 2023 means that next year is 2024, and 2024 is The Good Year. Which makes 2023 The Absurdly Busy Year, but I am here for it.
Fun Fact: I have an unusual startle reflex and I don’t jump at all at nearby gunshots or explosions. Some of my friends know this, but not all of them. Certainly not the one who gave me the bag of Ambien™ to help me “sleep through the fireworks at midnight.” She gave me careful instructions about when and how many to take, and of course I thanked her profusely, shut the door, and took everything in the bag. I don’t have a solid recollection of much, but I know I stayed up quite some time making bizarre art. And like Christmas morning, except better, the morning after an Ambien™ binge is always full of surprises. For instance, this “poem” I have no memory of writing:
Happy New Year, my friend
I say to my friend.
The dash between us is like the space
between strangers on a train;
it’s not what we know about each other that matters,
but what we don’t. The dash is how it feels
to live in two states at once, the territory of the hyphen,
here but not quite, home but not really.
The dash is how it feels to be in exile,
the space between where I am and where I want to be,
or so I tell myself.
But the truth is I’m happy here.
I’m just not used to being happy.
What the fuck does that even mean? The dash? What dash? There’s no dash here. God knows what I was thinking. Doesn’t even sound like my style at all. Maybe I’ll get back in to writing verse (sober verse) this year. My sober stuff isn’t that great, but it’s quite better than this dash nonsense. Never mind. Happy New Year. Let’s get weird.
N.P.: “Reduced Voltage” – Blancmange