The day began as another one of those continuations of the day before. More late-night talking, more too-early rising, more alternating between lamenting and luxuriating in the lax laziness of my vacation. I think I did some laundry, washed the dishes, listened to some music, took some time out to write a few things down, took a shower...and fell asleep.

I got a call at nearly 4 that woke me from my slumber, which was fine, because I was expecting to be out of here around 3 anyway. I had allowed myself to be talked into actually leaving the house on New Year's Eve, which says much about my state of mind and the gentle good influences of my partner-in-crime (hereafter referred to as "cricket" on account of his shiny black soul that chirps and hops about in seemingly random but purposeful direction). The plan had been to arrive (alive) at 4 PM (not five) and see the bboys dancing outside of the Frost Bank. We got there at 4:30 and First Night Austin was in full swing & thankfully for us the bboys (and girls) had evidently been awaiting our arrival, because they didn't start dancing until 5, anyway.

The dancing, I thought, was good. & when it was over, we met up with cricket's friend and wandered a bit, then watched the parade go by. A very impressive parade, if I do say so myself. I was snapping pictures like I was insane (and maybe I am) and enjoying the hell out of the spectacle, the lights, the various weird ideas of what the end of the year actually means, from vehicular insects to giant, stilt-walking puppets to juggling to, what else? The gleeful participation in the world's suffering.

The end of the parade was anti-climactic. There was no grand finale. It was like it was there, and suddenly it ended and the crowd closed in on the street so it was hard to tell that it had ever been there at all, which seemed to be a theme of the evening. We would arrive at an event, and it would end, and then there was nothing there at all, only we would still be staring off into space at where the something replaced by nothing once stood.

At any rate, after the parade was dinner, and we won't go into details there. I had a veggie burger. It tasted good. I also enjoyed my fries and the company of my dear, sweet cricket.

Dinner ended, and we walked down the middle of the First Street Bridge. The chalk drawings on the street were about the best example of ephemeralist art that I have seen in a long time, and ephemereality seemed to be the flow of the evening. Life and love are about as fleeting as chalk on a sidewalk. One good rain or a million pounding feet and it's history. Water under the bridge. Faded photographs or words that paint thin remniscient contours of the vibrance of what Was. And, like this essay, actually, all that is left is sentimentality tinged with bliss and/but vague dread. And, sure enough, by the time we reached the beginning of the bridge, the chalk was already fading. I wanted to hold my cricket's hand, hug him close, and be all clingy in the moment, but I stopped myself - reminding myself that worrying about impermanence doesn't make it any less so, it only destroys the present. Time cannot be stopped. We move about, searching, finding, connecting, reconnecting, disconnecting, Being. What is offered is what is real. Past and Potential are mythology.

All of this smiling morbidity made me that much more appreciative of the surreality of the evening. The flowers in the pot in the hallway inside of 1 Congress, where inside, people were dancing and clapping silently behind the glass while we stood outside in relative calm, looking in. A man with a banner that said "2006" with tinseled streamers also stood outside. We turned away to find the spirit of the evening made flesh in silhouette by The Shadow Catcher. A long, clotheslined banner of various people caught in reflected poses. Bikes, dancers, children, kissers. Utterly alone and together with cricket my cricket, I felt a shuddering familiarity in the presence of the people who had passed through and allowed themselves to be indelibly inked onto these sheets. It was heartbreakingly beautiful, and it made me ache for something eternal.

Then up to the slam poet telling a story about his popeye moments that made me laugh. And buildings and lights and more and more absurd spectacularity. We sat in the plaza while people walked all around us. I think it was at this point that I turned to my companion and said "People aren't so bad." And he grinned in that way he does when he's been staring off into space with No Smile and suddenly realizes that I am looking at him & that he wants me to know that he is OK. It's a crooked, broad, tight-lipped, mouth-only smile that makes my heart melt every time. It's a smile unconsciously designed to make me smile back. Shine eyes. Glad. Chirp chirp.

We made our way down to see the fire dancers next & that was OK, but more an excuse to sit for awhile. I enjoyed the sweet comments of the kid who was absolutely floored by the performances "We loved your act!" I observed the way the flashing lights of the cop cars reflected off of the water, but couldn't capture it on film in spite of my best efforts.

And suddenly, a yawn and it was time to enter the Real World again and head home. "Do you want to stay for the fireworks?" "I've seen fireworks before. It's no big deal." And it wasn't. I had been rapidly approaching my fill for hours, but didn't mind overfilling for this one night. These two weeks have been an exercise in overfillment that has been good for me. & what's one more night anyway?

So, we ascended, serenaded by the sweet innocent graffiti on the undercarriage of the 1st street bridge: "You are Free Now" "F-word" "You are Special" and some dude's phone number repeated like the scenery in the background of a roadrunner cartoon. Ascended, up and up and up onto the street, through more crowds, where children were playing in globs of snow-esque soap that acted as the misted veil between the fairlyland we were departing and I could almost hear the overture of bells and harps as we entered the overly squeaky-clean, yet somehow gritty reality of the world of 6th street. We scoffed at the drunks and made our way to the car, only to go home and drink Kahlua and ring in the New Year in a more mellow way. Listening to music, talking, enjoying life.

On the way home, I had wondered out loud about what I did on New Year's Day last year, because surely it was not as awesome as this celebration. We checked the blog when we got home to find that I was about as dopey in my joy of the celebrations of the past 2-3 years as I had been all night in the presence of my cricket and the good folks of First Night Austin, TX, 2006. It's like I'm fucking addicted to hope. The joy is neverending. Much like these days of vacation continuation...

The day, New Year's Day, was much the same as the day before. Too little sleep, too much enjoyment of the all that surrounds me to complain about the lack. Activity in waves. Music. Conversation. Connection. All threaded with the fought-back acknowledgement that these experiences are temporal in nature and/but in spite of that, they are always replaced by something equally if not more beautiful, giving rise to more and different and better and sometimes just other to create a rolling, roiling eternity that exists on this pindrop of life and love and beauty. Which, really, is what the past is for, anyway. So that when the panic of non-existence or changed existence begins to rise, I can look back on those photographs (real and imagined) and remind myself, "I am Free Now" and I can smile into the void.

And the void smiles back. Crookedly. To let me know that he is OK.