| Jan. 2nd, 2010 @ 11:46 am The Art of Parties |
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Spent New Year's Eve in West Galt (North Dumfries). Considered spending it in bed reading Gravity's Rainbow, but perhaps made the right decision. You know how I get when prepping for social endeavours.
Was invited by housemate to her parents' place, supposedly surrounded by woodland and waterworks and such. Other housemates were going, as were mutual friends none of which I consider bad people.
Was mulling the answer while listening to them play Beatles Rock Band, insult people they didn't like, and pour on massive hate for Fleetwood Mac. Stuck with it because it was the least sensical invitation, the most different from years before.
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The place was the kind of place horror movie dreams are made off, open-room cabins smelling of wood with scantly-lit pathways giving the illusion of neighbourly aid. The Kitchen alone was the size of half of our house. A spiral staircase sent up the middle of the living room to a bedroom which had chosen full-length windows for walls as private paths and ponds and woodland could be surveyed as one slept.
Myself and S. made dinner, sweet potato quesedillas on his part and a sweet potato slash black bean stew on mine. With our combined leftovers we improvised a salsa, impressing ourselves with culinary lateral thinking (sort-of.)
After using a nice set of knives, I want one of my own again (The name Misono comes to mind.) The same applies to gas stoves. I prever cluttered cramped living areas, however, they seem warmer and more livable.
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Glasses of Frangelico. C. devours all the shrimp and we cheerfully laugh at her about it. A. catches a few dozen peanuts in his mouth and pours himself Sambuka. Smoke-ring circles, first bongs then pipes. Tobacco is discussed, I suggest mixing in Djarum for next time.
The stereo blares The Beatles, Elvis Costello, follows up with Oingo Boingo and Euromotion. Z. lowers her eyes at this musical history of her ex-housemate. I think of Dan (Fernando) and him suggesting that I'd enjoy Brian Eno. Nobody knows or understands Tangerine Dream, but they file the second-half of Phaedra away for next time. Scooter begins but is skipped as generic "DJ music". The Stones never come up at all.
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K. dances and talks about film archiving in UEA and cannot cannot keep a straight face in any picture. W. giggles and snorts and admits that she only allows people to yell things like "You're pretty" and "The bus you're waiting for is going to show in two minutes!" at random people on the street from her car.
I am not going to pet a dog just because it's there, which is strange. As of this writing I have cajoled the cat George Michael onto the sunny spot on my bed where he sleeps, occasionally stared at when I'm thinking.
We go outside and light a fire, fueled by Mike the Punk's Jimmy Buffet record sleeves and W.'s undergraduate career. One minute to midnight, we light sparklers and dance around. A., the only one completely blasted, is giggling and boistrous, giving advice to anyone that won't listen, running up hills and we all laugh at him before he slinks off to pass out on a couch in his suit and tie. Mike the Punk holds sixteen sparklers in each hand; Later, he tries to light a cigarette from the flames before deciding --at our urging-- that a pristine face isn't worth a small social reputation.
Half-an-hour before the bell tolls I recieve an email message on a phone I forgot to turn off. It's nothing, just a message, but defines so much of what I did in 2009 and why I did them Just when I think I'm winning, When I've broken every door, The ghosts of my life, Blow wilder than before. I consider my 2009 satisfied, I smile despite myself, I leave off considering replies and enable airplane mode.
More music and smoke and talking. Z. and J. hold each other, the first time I've seen the former happily affectionate. I'm wearing a black lite sweater and a handkerchief. Sometimes, depending on my mood, I wear it like a peasant scarf. I look in the mirror once and am surprised to feel attractive. W. asks me about my pre-Canadian life and I try to answer truthfully.
Z. tells me, despite knowing that my veganism being only for seduction purposes, that she nonetheless considers me her best vegan baker. "For as your intentions drip with deliciuous sex, Gaelan, so do your baking results."
We try watching the Yellow Submarine around four, but too many of us are tired and stoned and it's just too much so early in the year. We sleep on layers of blankets, none of us comfortable, a chorus of apnea.
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We wake, we make each other pancakes, we talk, we clean up, we laugh at A. He drives half of us to the Anslie bus terminal to ease his chauffer duties, I commute his guitar to allow more passenger room.
We converge at my place eating Chinese. We talk about porn, and the rest of the story has been told.
I have four resolutions, two easy, two extremely difficult. I have a dozen intentions, and no set future. Twenty Ten. |
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