New Year’s Eve is an ancient and arbitrary collusion between the Babylonians, Romans, and Pope Gregory. There are no years, and there is no January, and neither is there a “midnight.” There’s a middle-of-the-night, but it’s tough to have a countdown to a nebulous concept.
There is time, and we mark it and pretend like our watches are the driving force.
Fuck the clock–listen to Patti on this one–and burn your calendars, and plant a shade tree over your sundial.
The trains would be a mess.
Or you can just try the old Robert Anton Wilson method, and track time by at least two different calendars, for a full cycle each, and make sure to swap out for new calendar each time.
If a person consumes enough hallucinogens, for long enough, eventually time becomes meaningless, beyond just when to do something. And that’s even after years of not taking them.