new year. blue moon…

i suppose all of you are out amongst the living in your finest clinking champagne glasses and nuzzling noses with others, hopefully significant.

i am home writing. i know–how romancing the stone of me.

it’s a blue moon tonight. did you see it? the man in the moon looked so lonely as i was walking keaton and then seemed to be smiling a knowing smile. he knows why he’s blue, i suppose. new year. blue moon. sigh.

don’t mind me. this is just a side effect of too much pride and prejudice mixed with procrastination. pride and procrastination? not quite so catchy.

tonight feels like the culmination of much winsome writerliness or perhaps just self-indulgent reflection coupled with an overzealous affinity for seeking portents. i claim the blue moon. look away. it was meant for me.

2010, be kind to me. i have plans for you. i will allow you a few hiccups to escape if you promise to mostly be a happy buzz of good times and friendly faces. and the words. the words need a home. and they long for the screen. they won’t rest until they get their moment. you know how persuasive they can be. you know how they scratch at sleep till you commit them to page. you know how they disturb the deepest of dreams and demand depiction. you know how they won’t let go. like aged, fermented embarrassments, they won’t let go but can be called upon with immediate clarity, anything to cause the hands to cover the face. so, 2010, you will have to take them. for new ones are pushing through and in and all around. these must go to make room. 2009 clearance. 2010, be kind to them.

sticks and stones merely break bones, but words, words can slay you again and again, the torment growing with each keystroke. words can part or seal two lips forever. words can rent or heal. words, my dear friends, are why poets weep. and without the poets to describe the weather of our hearts, how can we truly live?

writers are not merely observers. we are translators. distillers. we take the small moments and offer them sweeping backdrops. we give a tear its rightful place on the side of a cheek or the back of a hand. we magnify insignificant moments to passersby until they scream, until someone looks up from their newspaper, so that the words can be heard.

that is why anyone does anything ever.

okay, little script, i hear you calling. shh now. be still. i’m coming back–with coffee–and dreams of red hearts on blue moons.

so hear me, 2010. like the moon of blue, be round. be whole. be heard.