From today, on The Paris Review’s blog:
Firecrackers and whistles sounded the advent of the New Year of 1965 in St. Louis. Stripteasers ran from the bars in Gaslight Square to dance in the street when midnight came. Burroughs, who had watched television alone that night, was asleep in his room at the Chase Park Plaza Hotel, St. Louis’s most elegant.
I rang in the new year in Missouri too, although I was in Kansas City. And I stayed awake. The night began with dirty martinis and old friends in Westport bars, but at some point the whole of my five feet began drowning in crowds. Half an hour to midnight, I split. I jumped into the car of a friend, and we attempted to make it to a party before the countdown to 12 a.m. At 11:58, we were four minutes away–so we pulled into a church parking lot and split a bottle of sparkling grape juice in the car. No dancing crowds, no stripteasers, no whistles, probably fireworks (though I didn’t notice them)–just the sound of laughter with one of my very best friends. I was the happiest.
Believe it or not, December was filled with writing, though this writing didn’t end up on this blog because it consisted of graduate school application essays and Christmas cards. So it goes. In any case, 2014 has been incredibly productive thus far (all 32 hours of it!), and I’m eager to write what I want to write again.