December 30: Italian Cold Cuts, New Year's Eve Party, Letter of Recommendation, Calvin and Hobbes

Earlier in the day Ives had walked over from the office to Ninth Avenue during lunchtime, to buy boxes of Italian cold cuts and pastries, and these were set out on a table as a buffet...

Ives is buying Italian cold cuts and pastries for his annual Christmas tree decorating party.  Family and friends and children come to his apartment, and, while the adults eat and drink, the kids decorate his Christmas tree.  It's an Ives' family tradition.

This evening, I went shopping with my sister for our annual New Year's Eve party.  We have been having this party at my parents' house since I was a twelve or thirteen.  I sort of started the tradition because I got tired of seeing my parents and older siblings disappearing on December 31st and coming back well after midnight wearing party hats and blowing horns.  I was missing out on something.  So I decided that, if I couldn't go to the party, the party was going to come to me.

It used to be a much bigger shindig, with almost fifteen or so people attending.  But, because of relocation and choice and death, the party tomorrow night will be a much smaller affair.  Seven adults and three kids.  There will be food and games.  At midnight, we will put on hats and blow horns and gather around the piano to sing "Auld Lang Syne."  It will be a good time.

This evening, I had to write a letter of recommendation for a former student of mine.  She is applying to graduate schools, and my recommendation was due on January 1.  I really didn't want to take time out of my New Year's Eve party to write my recommendation, so I did it tonight.  Just submitted it.

Now, I am going to take some Nyquil and go to bed.  Long day.  Long night.  Short time to sleep.

Don't forget to vote in Saint Marty's book poll.

What will next year's book be:

• The Road  by Cormac McCarthy?
• The Color Purple by Alice Walker?
• Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard?
• The World According to Garp by John Irving?

Are you perfect?

September 12: Going to Sleep, Matt Gavin Frank, "Sagittarius Nocturne"

After I am done with this post, I am going to sleep.  My wife is a little annoyed with me at the moment.  She wants to hold a serious conversation with me, and I want to type this post and have a serious conversation with my pillow.

I can't blame my wife.  We haven't seen each other much this week.  I had commitments literally every night this week.  Meetings.  Classes.  Poetry Readings.  Awards ceremonies.  This night is the first we've been together in about five days.

Unfortunately, all I can think about is slumber.  And the poem below by Matt Gavin Frank.

Saint Marty has to work up some energy to hold a conversation with his spouse.

Sagittarius Nocturne

by:  Matthew Gavin Frank

Night heavy
as a cabbage, and I doze
to the dachshund's
chicken bone vomitting,
then swim, dressed like marriage
in only a cummerbund,
to the wet star so on top
of the tool shed, and hear
a single yard of black grass confide
to its finish every morning,
and the coal necklace
on brick where jellyfish,
in blocked uppercase letters,
spell another mystery
without the stroke of a few
fattening photographers,
disorganized white breasts,
the loud treasons of waking.

Sweet dreams, everybody