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February 1. January was but a blink -- I missed my Jan 1 rituals and I think my whole internal clock missed the turning over of the year. Those rituals, mind you, consist of lazing around the house -- probably hacking on some project actually -- in the evening, and then in the morning of the New Year, waking up lazily for the re-run of the rose parade which no one is really watching anyway, and eating donuts. No down time this time.
While I'm sitting here deliriously procrastinating going off to sleep, I'd like to thank Rob for introducing me to the Mountain Goats. A few days ago he and I and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
four went gallivanting out into the Rochester winter highways. In the brilliance of the snow-covered landscape in the dead of night, we tramped through abandoned railways, we drove through the winter countryside and along numbered highways unfamiliar. We drove the white roads with white banks, the headlamps caught up in the silent white blast of newfalling snow. Rob was leaving the next day, moving to Florida and Wal-Mart and the Belly of the Beast. He made Ryan and I mix CD's for his going away. Out in the white winter numbered highways, with snow blasting past, the hulking forms of ghost barns and barren trees rising up, he said, this is the song of your co-op:
While I'm sitting here deliriously procrastinating going off to sleep, I'd like to thank Rob for introducing me to the Mountain Goats. A few days ago he and I and
four went gallivanting out into the Rochester winter highways. In the brilliance of the snow-covered landscape in the dead of night, we tramped through abandoned railways, we drove through the winter countryside and along numbered highways unfamiliar. We drove the white roads with white banks, the headlamps caught up in the silent white blast of newfalling snow. Rob was leaving the next day, moving to Florida and Wal-Mart and the Belly of the Beast. He made Ryan and I mix CD's for his going away. Out in the white winter numbered highways, with snow blasting past, the hulking forms of ghost barns and barren trees rising up, he said, this is the song of your co-op:he drove from in from mexicali, no worse for wear. money to burn, time to kill. but five minutes looking in his eyes and we all knew he was broken pretty bad, so we gave him what we had. we cleared a space for him to sleep in, and we let the silence that's our trademark make its presence felt. come on in, we haven't slept for weeks. drink some of this. it'll put color in your cheeks. they came in by the dozens, walking or crawling. some were bright-eyed. some were dead on their feet. and they came from zimbabwe, or from soviet, georgia. east saint louis, or from paris, or they lived across the street. but they came, and when they'd finally made it here, it was the least that we could do to make our welcome clear. come on in, we haven't slept for weeks. drink some of this. it'll put color in your cheeks.
