Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,

and never thought upon;

The flames of Love extinguished,

and fully past and gone:

Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,

that loving Breast of thine;

That thou canst never once reflect

On Old long syne.

CHORUS:

On Old long syne my Jo,

On Old long syne,

That thou canst never once reflect,

On Old long syne.

(James Watson, 1711)

New Year's Eve is soggy here, rain forecast to fall all the live long day.  It is O.K. with me.  One doesn't feel the need for action nor the regret of missing much on a day such as this.  Doing will be more difficult than being.  Doing nothing is not being nothing.  Doing nothing and reflecting upon being, on how to be.  Being is a defense against the void, the style and manner of an existence, making meaning where there is none.  Being is our one true creative act.  I lament the times I have squandered that.

The lyrics above, of course,  are to the original song from which the poet Robert Burns made his now famous poem.  I'm a fool for all things melancholy.  Here's a version of the song that strikes a balance between hope and sadness and perhaps upon the folly of both as well.  It won't win you over with the first notes, but listen to it all the way through.  By the end, you will appreciate the minimalist approach, the bareness of the requiem, the stoic stature of the drinkers, time worn threadbare, etc.  You may, as I have, even learn to love the phrasing in the singer's voice.  Do me the courtesy of at least a minute (if not more).  It took until the second verse for the thing to give me a chill.  

The year is over, the deeds are done.  Remembering is one thing, but looking back is another.  The past has been set ablaze.  Remember what happened to Lot's wife.  Plug your ears against the Siren's Song. 

Or don't.  You know.  Whatever.  Selavy.