.:celebrate:.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, 
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun...there are millions 
     of suns left, 
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand...nor look
     through the eyes of the dead...nor feed on the spectres in 
    books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, 

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
.....
There was never any more inception than there is now, 
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. 

 -- Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass 

 At this moment,  I have just finished writing a couple of monstrously endearing papers for grad school.  I have two pastries in my tummy, and the night is breaking into the next day.  It is almost June.  And at this moment, I feel something along the lines of joy, despite all the uncertainties of tomorrow, of the year to come.

I am going to turn off the light, take out my contacts, and feel my way through the dark.  It is the promise of sleep, and the promise of writing anew, that awaits.  I will find myself in the embrace of my love, and leave my fate to my dreams.

Drifting to sleep with a piece of Kant that I have loved reading over and over again this past month:
The night is sublime while the day is beautiful.  Temperaments which have a sense for the sublime will be drawn toward eleated sentiments regarding friendship, contempt for the world and toward eternity, by the quiet silence of a summer evening when the twinkling light of the stars breaks through the shadows of the night and a lovely moon is visible...
The sublime, in turn, is at times accompanied by terror or melancholia, in some cases merely by quiet admiration and in still others by the beauty which is spread over a sublime place.  

I blame and thank the Romantics and Transcendentalists for keeping me in merry, insane company tonight.

Greetings, earthlings...

Perhaps it is because of all the snow, with its blank slate of a promise.  Perhaps it is a perk of celebrating the Lunar New Year, reminding me of my resolutions (already growing a bit stale on the shelf).  Either way, I am ready to start again.

In my college years, I used to blog impulsively; between midnight buffalo-wing splurges and the occasional class, I poured my angst into the crevices of virtual reality.  Like many of my contemporaries on Xanga, life was just so complicated, and everyone had something to share.  After all, there is much to say about the meaning of life according to French toast. 

Five years later, the fast-moving streams of Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr have left me longing for something less ephemeral.  This blog is meant for sitting back and mulling over the delicious moments thrown at me from random directions; yes, a proper pieing indeed.  As a lover of words, I hope to share literature, stories, and foodie adventures that may stick around, longer than the ice currently imprisoning the Garden State.

As a first bit, here's a benediction that one of my favorite authors declared at the start of this new year:

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you 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.     -- Neil Gaiman