oh i feel lazy. i have done nothing all day. well that's not true i went and paid the rent and rode to the point. ate wavy chips and sour cream and onion dip. took pix. it's new years day for crissakes. i see my dad with his skinny shoulders hunched in dismay hauling logs for the fire. i'm sitting there with rose. he says you could get off your ass and help looking at her, past me. she's 80 and his guest at his bluestone mansion. i'm shocked, she's crying, i'll never come here again. and she never did and she was dead in two years. he came the same hour she died and my sister and i there taking care and then bereft of care with him there and an hour later he said, let's order pizza, and we were hungry the whole time she was dying and while we waited for the delivery person they came and carried her out. i feel soul lazy today and i wish the old man was here to light a fire for me.

 oh shit what did we watch last night. no, i remember, we watched patti smith again, in london this time i guess, a shirtless girl with tiny breasts was slowly dancing in place with torches in her hands to patti singing, then they seemed to be back in detroit like the night before but with different masks. then we started watching city hall, but how could we watch 4.5 hours of boston city hall on new years, it may have got exciting but it looked pretty banal. we paused it indefinitely and watched a trip to greece. those guys are desperately funny, i mean they try desperately hard, but there's a sadness, like addiction, they're funny man addicts, addicted to each other, exhausting, they exhaust each other and they're sad to leave. i can't imagine them back home. if they followed their hearts they'd be together all the time and just have funny man dalliances with girls who are suckers for the endless repartee. then the david crosby doc, wow, i thought he was a mess and yet he comes out shining, though with 8 stints a new kidney and diabetes, but his beautiful voice soaring intact and he wants peace and love and music like he always did even when drugs ruined him. 

tonight we watch luz:the flower of evil, or david byrne's american utopia or both i hope if we can stay awake.

s

 an abandoned mask hung in a bare tree could be a symbolic nest of the year past, a hammock for a fledgling bird to come, or baby squirrel. or a flag of the dead, warning ships approaching, or the woven hope of a species of individual survival.

  new years day. concrete caskets line the storm battered shore of promontory point. ice crystals pink my face as i ride. my old frostbite moans softly in my right hand, my left handed joints feel the receding jerks of little bear months ago. my wheels make soft crisp cyclic whispers under me. i see the girl living in the bus stop shelter across from the empty laboratory school. i'm a lucky one with a wistful glance going to a cozy home.

 i know i keep featuring the same snow kid they are just too cute and have lots of things to say. the word of the day is fulvous. i read that just after reading sarah's n.y.times front page on the elevator coming back from dropping the envelope with rent thankfully not on the ground like my therapy envelope and reading read that the sick fuck trump is still moaning about the cases that are killing him. maybe he's not so orange. orange cats are natural orange. orange is wonderful and the potus is putrescent. so is he perhaps fulvous? tawny? butterscotch? any appellation other than the sick fuck trump—which conjures the spectre without the image—is too good, but i think provisionally i'll deem him that. although it's usually applied to birds or fungi, and he's nowhere near as good. in fact he's just plain no good for anything. good for nothing ho. i just want to redeem orange as a color and a fruit.

 I would no more, as I have done,
Consider what the year will bring
But take the seasons one by one;
For, all in all, the heaviest thing
—Excepting only no more hope—
Is hope returning year on year:
Let me not give it now the scope
Of what I might do, for I fear
    That if it cast off heaviness,
    This is my burden, none the less.

 

from The New Year’s Burden
by Catherine Davis

whelp, we survived, so far. happy gregorian new year everybody. come in peace, go in peace.