"What makes me think I could start clean-slated? The hardest to learn was the least complicated."

-

.......

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you get to read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art - write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."

- from Neil Gaiman's journal, Dec. 31, 2001.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

--Reinhold Niebuhr

November 2nd by ~dreamsnhazel

squatting.
when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth.

the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.

it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first, with its arms
extending far beyond yours, and its neck
orbiting yours at a very cautious distance.
but if you keep wearing it, you'll find yourself
saying things like "i miss you," and you'll
feel yourself growing, feel your shoulders
expanding.

wearing the sweater on this early morning
in november, i found myself writing this:
squatting.
i never thought i was doing such a thing
when i invested in you, perhaps no one
ever does. maybe we all have intentions
of someday moving in, maybe not.
i think i did.
which is why it hurts now, to think of
the new tenant, his hands tracing the
intricate woodwork that my own fingers
once explored. to think of him christening
the doors of your mouth with the first of
many kisses. to thoughts of other, more
intimate places, hidden by shadow and
inhabited by mosquitos, where he may
someday venture.
these thoughts leave you without
adequate words in your own tongue,
so you turn to the savage language
of fire and matches.

but before you speak, you think of
the sirens. the echo of sirens you had
already heard over the phone during
late-night confidences.
and you think about how selfish you would
be to join the ranks of all the other
arsonists she had known.
so instead, you pack up
the sweaters,
the stocking caps,
the sweatpants
and assume you'll never see the snow again.
and everyone compliments you on how
good you look in flip flops and shorts.

but one morning in november,
you realize that you will never
truly be happy with such fairweather compliments.
no, you will only truly be happy when some
girl draped in a scarf lays a mittened hand on
your shoulder and whispers into your ear,
"that sweater really brings out the gold speckles in your eyes."