Sitting here with the Christmas tree on, with a glass of sparkling champagne and some Cheerios, while Sam snoozes on the couch and the girls play Super Smash Brothers downstairs. I'll make them go to bed in a little bit-- they're a little hyper now. We set off party poppers on the back porch, after all. Such a mad, gay night life we live. ^_~ I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button yesterday and, while it wasn't as good as the short story, I did enjoy it. I'm thinking of that backwards clock right now, swooping past nine, down to eight, down to seven, ever backwards. I'm thinking, too, of Ray Bradbury's The Pillar of Fire, which I first read at age thirteen, in an old moldering anthology I found in the back of the school library. That corpse, standing on a cold hill riddled with disturbed graves, hating the bright city and the future he can't understand.
As afraid as I sometimes am when the future looms at the foot of my bed... I don't want go back. I think, sometimes, our generation tends to become over-absorbed in our own problems, forgetting the trials of the past. I love history, love the words and rhythms that bring it back to life, but I wouldn't want to live there. *shrugs* Contemplating the future is overwhelming; longing for the past is deceiving. I think we've got to make the most of here and now.
Do any of you know this poem? My mom used to read it to me when I was a girl.
From Kalamazoo to Timbuktu,
From Timbuktu and back;
it's a long, long way,
a long, long way,
a long way down the track.
From Timbuktu to Kalamazoo;
It's just as far to go back.
Happy New Year, everyone. Let's make the best of this we can. I know we can, and I intend to.
Here's to the Year of the Ox!