new year

there are dead flowers, carnations, sitting dry and drooping in a mug at the corner of my desk. they are dead, given to me by a person who i no longer care for. why can't i bring myself to throw them away? why do i keep bookmarks and pieces of scrap paper given to me ten years ago by my aunt kathy, and little wrapped pouches of plastic baby jesuses in a wooden box with gems and jewels and sticks of glue? why doesn't my window keep out the cold gusts of wind flying past it?
i don't know, really. i don't know really how to change these habits. i suppose i attribute too much value to small objects, too much sentiment exists in my life, my cave, my dwelling.
but i've got a few new books to devour in the next few weeks (if i don't procrastinate this precious holiday away).

and here is something that happened to me the other evening as i was walking back to my apartment. it made met think about this place i'm in...mentally, and how it relates to where i live and the people i'm surrounded by. i sent this excerpt to a friend:

cold, cold, cold...shades drawn, it's eleven fifty two am and i am alone. alone with thoughts of death and death of thoughts which scares me more? i'm not really suree but i've been walking desolate streets without body or soul to connect to. i've come to realize why i am here where i am as i walk the streets of cold dark nothing night because the only people who stay here, here as a home, have nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be, let's say, nowhere else to be. junkies and bums and dependent families depend on this place. those walking the streets though, those are the ones who are most lost i believe, most restlessreckless. while the lamplight shines on cold black streets they, us, we are out walking alone with hands in pockets, faces vacant i suppose this description is a bit sad but true so true. i crossed a street with a boy yesterday, in the evening and his head hung low and his shoulders sank to his chest and he was very small to me though actually much taller. i was grateful that his gaze followed the lines of the crosswalk rather than the lines of makeup running down my face from a previous day i can really remember but when he did finally look up at me i knew him i knew his face, though i couldn't place the why and where of it.
he said to me, "i'm kind of lost. could you tell me how to get to college avenue?" lost, that's what it was, the familiar. so i gave him directions and a small smile and kept walking along my deserted path only day old newspapers and the diffused glow of closed shops to keep me company. i should have asked him to coffee or tea-I thought as I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to warm my fingertips in tight fists-instead of allowing him to wander the dark street of this desolate place. strange souls stay here, remain here when everyone else has gone, scattered certainly and undeniably uncertain. Now, I couldn’t have saved him, surely not, I could never save anybody. I’ve never wanted to play such a masculine role and however indecisive i may be i do not believe that attempting to save anyone does much of anything good. But, I do believe that two lost souls sitting in a warm place with a scalding cup of something would have been better than us parting ways to walk separate empty streets of the same icy city, islolated by the very nature of the place that draws us near, with nothing to look forward to but another collision with another familiar face, two particles haphazardly meeting and departing, with hope in weary, crusty eyes of retaining more than the last time, taking the few moments to speak a few words of kindness that mean anything more than this rotting nothing that breeds endlessly in my chest and stomach.

i know you leave for that place on that day sometime soon.. but i would like to invite you to tea or coffee anywhere anytime before then..


hi. kelly. i miss you.