Dance.

The year ends -- the experiment of writing about my daily doings was decent. Definitely a stabilizing force during my long weeks in South Africa. It grounded me. I didn't think too much about things (the way I'm prone to do). But now twenty-eleven comes to a final, ungraceful bow, and I am at Cowboy Country with my good friends, and we are dancing with white people with soft hands (costume cowboys) and blowing horns and hooting and hollering and saying -- no, pleading -- oh, twenty-twelve, won't you bring us something better?

I only danced once, but it was a good one. I have no evidence for you, so you can imagine it far better than it was (how all things like to be imagined and remembered).