If You Could Read My Mind - or - Why I Do Not Read Sad Books

"when you reach the part where the hero comes, the hero would be me / but heroes often fail / and you won't read that book again because the ending's just too hard to take"

(See? Gordon Lightfoot really /is/ the best. See yesterday's post.)

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I close the book, tears streaming down my face, then reopen it, vision blurred, sniffling slightly.
There are a few pages left of torture, of unrelenting sadness, left to consume.

Somehow, I cannot pull myself away, and the sadness envelops me; and I, enthralled, flail helplessly in the grip of emotion, compelled to finish, to read the last bit in the futile saga.

Part of me, the Romantic part, clings to some futile hope that somehow "things" - meaning, the universe - will be all right, and that a happy ending is imminent, and is going to write itself in indelible ink in the few remaining pages.

But it is not to be, and when I am through, and the sadness has been recorded, and I have been unable to stop the tide of words, I close the book, a keening desolation engulfing my being, and I sob quietly, my body wracked with grief. I sob, and it seems that with each gasp of air what was a tiny rip becomes a tear in the fabric of my soul. This continues for a few minutes, as I try to control my body, while my mind replays the climax over and over again.

Then reality intrudes as  I become in desperate need of something to blow my nose with. I ignore my growing discomfort  and I stroke the cover of the book longingly, still caught in the web of sorrow that was captured on the pages. But no! The web is of my own weaving, the manifestation of my own reaction to mere words on a page.

Sighing, I get up and pad to the Kleenex, and think to myself, "It's just a book. Why are you crying?" I can't explain it. I return to my chair, sit down, and run my fingers over the spine and think, "I don't want my story to end like that one." And I turn my head into the cushion and feel the dampness from where my reaction to some ink and paper and glue, bound into a story, seeped from my eyes, and I wait to be released from the spell of sadness. I wonder, "Why does anyone even LIKE that book?" and scrunch my face and hug myself.

I know I'll never read it again - its poignancy is too vivid to endure more than once. And then I look in the mirror and see my red-rimmed eyes and inflamed nose and wonder, "Was it worth it?" And part of me thinks, "Yes. You are more of a person now - you have embraced an aspect of humanity, and uncovered a facet of yourself that you never knew about before, and it  has altered your world view slightly, yet permanently."

And the rest of me thinks, "No. You have enough sadness in your life without inviting more through works of fiction. This work is too close to home. It makes you remember things you want to forget, and reading things like this only causes you to regurgitate the actual unpleasantness in your life, and compare it with the events you just read about."

I vacillate between my two opinions for a moment, then shrug and decide I don't want to scrutinize my emotions anymore - they need no enhanced clarity: I am sad. I was crying. The book affected me.
This, I decide, is all I need to know.

So I put the book down on the floor and huddle into the chair and pull the blanket up to my chin and wait, rocking, for the inexplicable uprising of emotion to subside, and for life to return to "normal," knowing I will never be the same. 

Minstrel of the Dawn

Gordon Lightfoot is the best ever.
You may not like folk. That's fine. You may not like Canadians. That's also fine. You may not like acoustic guitar in general, or awesome voices. That's fine, too, but we may have to have a discussion later about your taste, and I may seriously question your ability to discern true lyrical, if not musical, genius.

So: Go buy Gord's music. I know I'm not the only one who feels this way about his work - entire Youtube forums have been written about it, and I am sure many more such posts are in progress as I write.

His songs evoke feelings in me that words can't explain: a feeling of overwhelming sentimentality, remembering times I was listening to his songs, remembering what I was thinking about, remembering long car rides. Sometimes it's an overwhelming sadness, thinking through the lyrics, knowing how many sad things happen to people every day, and how dreary the world must seem to people who don't have a strong safety circle of people who love them, like I do. Sometimes his songs make me think about all the good people in the world who seem to try really hard and never 'get anywhere.' Or people who love unrequitedly, unconditionally, for long periods of time, and the love in their hearts eventually shrivels up and dies because they could only love one person. Or how happy I am to be on the road, moving toward people and things that I love. Or how grateful I am to be alive, with the wind in my hair and watching the sunset's colors changing, humming a Gord's Gold song in my head.

I love his music. End of story. So to sum up: his music is stunning in its simplicity, and sincere in its emotions. Kind of how I want my entire life to be.

If you have not had the pleasure of hearing Gord's stuff, let me know and I'll give you my list of personal favorites.

Across (The Western Coast)

Car mileage ticks by like endless rain into a paper cup/ signs slither as they pass, we slip away across the western coast

Good people: I have arrived!

Here's how The Trip went. I do believe it is the longest road trip I have ever taken, roughly 1200 miles from start to finish, covering three days and at least that many inches of rain.

By the way, I will write a separate log about all the travails and helps that I had to deal with/was blessed with to give credit to all the lovely people who helped make this move possible. (Yes, the cheese was intentional, but your help is much appreciated nonetheless.)

The travelog:
Wednesday, 6:45 am. Put keys into the box. Get in car. Drive away. Get gas. Get on 405. Wind through hills, past the Getty, past that circular tower in which I will never live but will always wish I had experienced. Down into the valley, with smog hanging like a silk curtain (let's romanticize a little). Average: 80 miles/hour. Topanga, how I will miss hearing your name being memorialized daily as being a traffic hazard. Wind westward on the 101. Rain falls.

Just before San Luis Obispo: Jack in the Box. Lunch at 10:45. A bit early for me, but it turns out to be a great decision, as there was a guy in there who drove the 101 all the time and gave us good directions. He heard us asking the former CalTrans employee (now JitB on break) about if there was a number to call about landslides and he gave it to us, along with directions of where to get on.

We started up the 1. I have never done any driving like that before. Curves winding so steeply, rising and falling in elevation. 15 miles an hour, in heavy, heavy fog. Sometimes I couldn't even see where the road was going to curve next. It was like being in Mordor, except with no fire and ash, fog and (sometimes) angry surf instead. For miles we saw no one.

We got out a few times...the turquoise water was too alluring. Once we stopped and stood on the edge of a steep ravine, rain gently misting our glasses in perfect tiny drops. We couldn't see the ocean, but we knew it was there. We could see streams trickling toward the ocean, but we couldn't see the destination. It's cold by the sea. It was grey and the sea seemed to be content...but grey days on the ocean always remind me how powerful it is - no man can stop the tide. Good thing too...it would be a sorry thing if men could control everything.




The UPS driver whipped around the curves that I had been inching round for hours, smiling and waving. Waving? How can you take your hands off the wheel for long enough? My back was tense and I was ready for a break. We stopped at a lonely roadside store, past strings of solitary mailboxes with no homes attached to them, out of sight up steep steep driveways, or without driveways, seemingly random in placement. We bought salami, to go with our delicious crackers which there seem to be a looming shortage of. Salami, hummus, broccoli, townhouse crackers. Randomly, some Fritos. That's our food inventory.


The sun came out, and the fog rolled back. We could now see across the sparkles - noting the changes in depth, clearly marked by water color. (oh, fishies, live on amid the filth that daily we add to your playtank! ) We twisted and bent to Monterey. Up and down we wended our way toward San Francisco, with a stressful (for me) set of conversations about where we were going to spend the night. Apparently wednesday night is a busy night for hotels, as many were completely full. I began to wonder if we would have to camp out in the car. But no, such was not our fate! We got the last room with two beds at the Stratford Court. We were tired and were showing shocking signs of travelburn. N came to stay with us at the hotel, after a lovely dinner. I think perhaps that was one of my most favourite restaurant meals ever. I had steak - a tender cut, done just right, with wild mushrooms that were oh so tasty on the side and carmelized onions, with a baked potato. The portions were perfect, and the food...yum. I fell asleep at 9:30, earlier than I have in years.

We got up and had croissants for breakfast, and took a quick visit to the Grace Church Cathedral. Saying our goodbyes, we got in the car after a lengthy conversation with the valet and made our way north. I must say, I rather enjoyed those long strips along the 5, looking at orchards upon orchards, thinking...this is a completely different way of life than I am used to. Also completely different Wendy's service, as they messed up both our orders in fine fashion, which hasn't happened to me in years. Harmony, population 18. Road 5. Rural America, at its finest.

Then came the mountain passes. Miles and miles up up 6% grade, then down 6% grade. Passing trucks, downshifting, tested the limits of my car and of my driving ability. A little skittish from the previous day's near encounter round a curve, I set the pace slow and concentrated. Oh, Mount Shasta, how you awed me!

We came upon it, seemingly out of nowhere, as it rose starkly off to the left. It was so white! Its shape leads to very few places where snow cannot settle, making it nearly impossible to tell where the mountain began and the sky ended, if you didn't look closely. All alone, it sits in quiet elegance, snow blinding white and seemingly evenly coated, leaving just a few crags uncovered. To follow the LOTR references, it was like Lonely Mountain.

Too bad we didn't get any pictures. Though I doubt it would have done it justice. What we did get pictures of was another small mountain that appeared out of nowhere. Shasta, how I miss you, even two weeks later.

Oregon, here we come! Land of no sales tax and not putting gas in your own car. We stopped to get directions and I drank an odd green drink at Starbucks that had kiwi and celery in it, but actually taste pretty good. We were hijacking the wifi in order to find a place to live. Needless to say, we did not plan our vacation before started it. We found a hotel that had a nice breakfast room, and walked to a place called Greenleaf for dinner, where I had the most awful chicken I do believe I have ever tasted and where we both kind of spread out along the booth bench. Luckily our legs are not long enough to have our feet dangling at the end like forgotten drooping balloons. Then we took a nap. Yes, a nap, at 6:30 pm. After which, we took in a play: Pride and Prejudice. We sat in the back, and later commented on how they did absolutely nothing with the set, and how it was a bit stiff at the beginning (this was one of the first times they'd ever performed it). Darcy had a weird speech "thing" I didn't like - his s's were strange - and poor Lizzy, I felt like she was straining so hard, her neck cords were popping out. Mr. Bennett was completely ineffective and Mr. Collins stole the show. The version we saw put a lot of emphasis on Mrs. Bennett - which I am used to, thanks to A&E, but that even surpassed. They did do some interesting things about the passage of time that I thought were cool though.

Day 3: 9am, we head out. Day 3 was Rain Day. It rained. And rained. And rained. ALL DAY!!!

After a few more hours of mountain passes (now I know why only trucks come this way!) we stopped at a gas station and out of habit I drove up to the pump even though we didn't really need gas. We went inside and it was the oddest mix of convenience store and J&L, with a little Home Depot thrown in. It was very strange, but the people seemed friendly enough, and mum found some cards she liked, that also made me laugh.

We hit some snaggleteeth of traffic near Portland, and then it was stop-and-go solidly from near Olympia all the way to our destination. I have never felt more "are we there yet? are we there YET?" whines build up inside of me. Sadly,  let a few of them slip out. We listened to O Brother, Where Art Thou? and decided to visit the Big Rock Candy Mountain someday and to 'stay on the sunny side of life', which seemed incredibly ironic at the time, as we had not seen a single direct ray of sunshine all day up until that point, and didn't see any for the rest of the day, either.

We had all these plans about how we were going to listen to the book club book of the month and get naps in the car. I was the only one who took a nap, and we didn't listen to a single minute of that book on tape the entire way. My nap was for an hour or so on the third day. Mom drove between the odd gas station/hardware store/seed store and Portland. I think. I don't know, it was all a blur. That entire third day was just, let's get there, let's get there! I drove a little faster than was strictly safe with all the rain that was glutting the roads and was glad for my mudflaps. In LA mudflaps are obviously gratuitous but they may prove useful yet!

And now I am here. Ready to start my new life. I'll add pictures as soon as I get them (hint: yes, that means I want you to send them to me!)