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.)

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
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!)

Hey, Soul Sister

That's the song of the week. The one that's always on when I turn on the radio. The one that I'm humming as I walk up the steps to get to my flat. The one that this week I love, and next week will become a terror to my inner heartstrings from overdose. It's by Train, in case you're not familiar and wish to look it up. However, I'm too lazy to provide a link here for you.

So, a muse:


LA's version of christmas lights
brakelights and headlights as far as the eye can see
flashing white and red, in long clumpy strings, wending their way imperfectly across the landscape
onramp meters add occasional pepperings of red and green staccato, in exclamation points of color not quite on the beaten path
like jingle bells being shaken, cars move and brake in an awkward jumble of squeaky breaks and balding tires - an odd cacophony for unison.

A few measures of this symphony:
Signal, move, brake. Brake, tense, brake. Signal, fumes, hold. Dart left, brake, swerve. Pull hair. Tap wheel, turn dial. Wince, turn dial. Grumble, roll eyes (at neighbor using cell phone). Brake. Battle nervous tic. Brake, gun engine, brake. Signal, move. Dart right. Watch mirror. Brake.

the rhythm of the dance is never quite in sync, but it gets the job done
 later, rather than sooner, the cars graduate from the year-round lighting masterpiece and move make the exit...some leaving tire tracks, others delicately extricating themselves with unbelievable panache.

the Sound of Silence

silence like a cancer grows/people talking without speaking/people listening without hearing/people writing songs that voices never share/ and no one dares/ disturb the sound of silence

I came up with a great phrase today: soliloquy of silence.

That, I do believe, says it all. At least, all for today.

Homeward Bound

For two weeks, I was on Cold Mountain terrain. I had a warm bed, plenty of drink, and good company to take away the cold and make it rosy and glowing.

I'd like to point out that being with people is hard. It takes energy and perseverance and understanding. It is waiting with (or without) sniping when the other person is finally ready to go. It's about compromise. It's trying and frustrating and makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes...or just go lose yourself in a good book or on a solitary stroll.

The solitary times are the reflections, the idea builders, the trying to figure out who you are changes. It's the quiet affirmations with the wind in your hair, the furious journal writing, the talking to God and feeling your soul grow times. They're the times when you beat yourself up the most and have the moments of clarity that give you direction. They're the times when you ponder status quo and decide to change. When songs of the heart steal through your veins and beat a tattoo on your conscience.

And, don't forget: it's the times with people that you remember. The lazy afternoon car rides, the watching movies, the playing games, the quoting books, the squabbling over spaghetti leftovers, the arguments that make you reaffirm those beliefs that you decided to uphold in the solitary moments.

We all need both. Just when I think I prefer solitude to waiting in the cold car for the last straggler family member, I think, "where would I be without this person, who has loved me and uplifted me...Who has contributed to my crankiness and who has done my share when I wasn't able to? Who woke me up with the exuberance of the morning and of loudly squawking when I wasn't willing to share?"

I'd be alone, and all the quiet walks and soul-piercing moments can't begin to compare to the joy of belonging, of being absolutely sure of another being's love for you - that arms are open, waiting to hug you, and that there is always someone rooting for you - on your side.

To be alone is absolutely required sometimes to keep the sanity alive. But I can't think of a worse fate than to be in silent solitude forever.

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer

Well, I have a red nose, so I'm halfway there. Sheesh, it is so COLD in my apartment! Seriously, I have three shirts, a sweater, and slippers on and I am still a little icicle!

Anyway, what prompted this post was that I heard this awful rendition of "Rudolph" this year. Or is it Rudolf? Never sure. The point is that I heard the song, and it reminded me of the days when my sibs and I were the only people who said "like toothpaste" at the end of the song instead of "like Columbus." Columbus? Please. Toothpaste is *so* much better than tobacco.

Regardless, it occurred to me that the song totally reinforces all the negative things about being a little kid, and yet a lot of little kids really like that song. How ironic! I mean, if you were a sad scrawny reindeer who did not conform to the 'norm' and who got bullied, emotionally abused, and ostracized, and then an imaginary fat man wanted to exploit your natural assets (the red bulb of a nose that is apparently neon in fluorescence), how would you react? And then when all the two-faced snobbery 'deer fell upon you in fake adoration, would you fall for the flattery or be suspicious, thinking, gosh, ten minutes ago, you all hated me and were making my life miserable, and now you want to make all nicey-nice and pretend we're best buddies? *I think not.*

So. I love Christmas carols and songs. Not all, but most. So this Christmas, sing away, loud and clear. Even if you do choose to sing about Rudolph.

SSA

i kid you not. these are the first 1o acronyms to pop into mind.


silent smelly assassin
soprano soprano alto
silver salient agate
scrawny studmuffin abroad
sill sagging ajar
story strident audience
sleepy silly audio
salty sassy almond
scrunch sulk away
saddle sable appaloosa

On Garbage Cans

WARNING: THIS MAY BE TMI FOR YOU. If you are easily offended, please feel free to skip this post.

Garbage cans have many uses, the primary one being for garbage. Usually, garbage cans are made of metal or plastic and can vary from tiny (usually at least 8" high though, and at least 6" around) to huge (dumpster, anyone?)

Usually, I use garbage cans for trash. However, once I had to use them as a coordination lesson, as I was throwing a bag of garbage in the industrial sized bin downstairs and somehow my keys got ripped off my fingers and flew into the bin. Several spiders crawling over me, a near-panic attack, and several car alarms later (all false, as I tried desperately to use a broom handle to lever my keys up and out of the bin, and accidentally pushed the car alarm with the head of the broomstick instead of getting the broomstick to fit within the keyring), I successfully retrieved them.

Garbage cans also have other uses, as well. Unfortunately, sometimes they serve as the receptacle for something else - not nearly as pleasant as trash. Like today, for example, I was trying out makeup at a store with a friend. She's a spa technician/artist by trade, and she was giving me a free makeup consulation. Later, I'll have to show you what she did to my eyes. Wowser! I started feeling lightheaded, so I just sat down on the floor. She was working on my eyes, and I was having a hard time concentrating on what she was telling me about how to smoke my eyes. I bought a few pieces, and on the way to the register I felt like leaning over and putting my head between my knees. I was grateful for the excuse to bend over to sign the credit card release.

We exited the store and had not gone twenty steps before I said I felt a little sick and I needed to find a garbage can. There are nicely lined garbage cans everywhere, as it is a mall, but I couldn't see any. Only a poor unlined garbage can with a lot of Pepsi drinks in it. I had my eye on it, thinking maybe I could make it to the restroom. Nope. I'd walked all of three steps past it when I turned around and grabbed it. I'll leave the graphic stuff out...except I will say that due to Mom's training when I was a kid, I am very neat about such things. And I hardly disturbed my makeup with eye-watering, either. Amazing!

So the point of all this is that I am very. Very. VERY grateful for garbage cans. In all shapes and sizes, lined and unlined. For the things in them? Not so much, usually. But yes. Garbage cans are great. May they prosper in the land.

Dysphemisms

I suppose our family's Thanksgiving fare is as run-of-the-mill as anything else...except perhaps the plethora of pickles. ;) (Here's to us, fellow pickle princesses (and the odd prince)!)

The post-dinner conversations, however, are another story entirely. Other than the odd hockey reference, the conversation is dominated by determining how to start to attack the discombobulation that is our immigration system (no elaboration is necessary), and what game we are going to play next (in this case, Ticket to Ride - Europe).

So this Thanksgiving, the conversation inevitably turned to music, and we were musing about how although, admittedly, the Black-Eyed Peas have some serious beats going, their lyrics are possibly the lamest ever. For example, using "lovely lady lumps" as a descriptor for female secondary sex characteristics? Please! What is more unattractive than a "lump?" (Have you ever heard of anything less appealing? Or heard a "lump" being referred to as anything positive? Lumps are too-large cottage cheese curds. Lumps are cancer tumors. Lumps are proverbial peas in the proverbial mattress of the Princess. Lumps are uncomfortable!!!!!)

Moving on....we were talking about euphemisms, and how my friend Mikey was always talking about how everybody used euphemisms, and I always teased him that his euphemism was the actual word, euphemism. And then the conversation turned to dysphemisms, which I had to be introduced to, as I was (I am ashamed to admit - sometimes my self-education has rather large holes in it which I have determined to begin afresh to fill in, but that is another story for another blog post). Being the people that we are, we rarely use dysphemisms in our day-to-day speech.

Being the applicator of knowledge that I am (in the hopes of retaining as much as possible), I was trying to figure out when I would ever be party to a dysphemism, and then, it hit me. My eyes lit up, and my finger went up in the air in an "aha!" moment. "I know! LUMPS!"

She can be taught!!!

Because I Love You (a poem for two voices)

Because I love you,                          Because I love you,
I wash the dirty laundry
Fold it neatly                                    Fold you neatly
                                                         in my arms when you’re sad
Because you love me                      Because you love me
                                                       You buy apple beer
                                                       So I can enjoy the
                                                       Pop, foam
Twist, fizz
Of its charming flavor

Because I love you                        Because I love you
I look for bargain airfare
                                                      I try seafood
I offer to drive
                                                       I tolerate your music
I make you fresh-squeezed orange juice
                                                       I do the dishes, with water steaming
Hot                                                 Hot
Tamales are your favorite
                                                       Lemon tea cakes are your weakness
I know chips and salsa are your staple
                                                       I know spaghetti is your comfort


Because you love me                      Because you love me
You iron your own shirts
                                                        You pay your share of the bills
And mine                                         And mine
Because I don’t like to                    Because I don’t like to

Because I love you                          Because I love you
I reset my hug timer
                                                         I open my arms
So there’s no excuse                       So there’s no excuse
For me not to say
                                                         For me not to echo
That I love you, too.                        That I love you, too.

An Encounter with Sid the Kid

One traffic laden journey. $85 plus shipping/processing. A mile walk to the Staples Center. Opening my bag for security. All these things climaxed in one great adventure: an encounter with Sid the Kid's Pittsburgh Penguins. Look at how close we were!

So I didn't really meet them in person. But my eyes were totally star-crossed, so I started down the steps before the usher told me I had to wait for the next whistle (we were late, due to various factors). My eyes were peeled for the 87 jersey. I saw 44 (Orpik) first, and jumped a little in excitement, which made the usher laugh. "Look, there he is! There's my man," I said, as I saw 87 skate toward me. He wasn't more than 100 feet away. "Does he know he's your man?" S asked, teasingly. "He will now, if he knows what's good for him," I replied.

The whistle blew, and like a horse out of the starting gate, I took the stairs two at a time. A face-off was about to take place. There he was. Not even thirty feet away!!!! The cold of the arena made me shiver, but I was laughing in excitement. Finally, I got to see the Pens in action!

Of course, I was momentarily saddened by the thought that two of my four favorites were out for the count due to a broken wrist (#55, Gonchar) and a strained shoulder (#71, Malkin). waaaah. Oh well. It was still a great great game. When we got there, it was tied 1-1. Then, late in the second period, my second-favorite defenseman, Orpik, scored a goal. It was like watching it in slow motion, the puck gently drifting past all the players, skittering into the net. I think I'll always remember it. It was GREAT. Of course, then the Kings promptly scored 4 goals in retaliation, two in quick succession. Poor Fleury. He never really recovered from the first one and then there they were again, in his face. I could tell they were going to score before the puck actually went to the back of the net. It was like watching a flock of ravenous wolves descend on the fat piglet. (Fleury only resembles a fat piglet because of all his gear, though. Man, that guy is flexible!!!!)

Fleury = goalie = 29
Crosby = 87 = captain, youngest ever appointed at the time, hailed as the "next Great One." Basically, the kid's a whining scoring machine, and the poster boy of hockey.
Staal = 11 = the best fourth-liner around, he really should get a pay raise, and probably will after the next season, when he (unfortunately for Pens fans) will likely switch teams. As long as it's not the Red Wings he defects to, I think I'll be okay.

In short, although 'we' lost, it was a great game. I practically couldn't talk the next day from all the shouting I did. Luckily, there were loads of Pens fans there too, so I didn't get yelled at for screaming at all the 'wrong' times. I was thinking, hmmm, I could really dig this. And then I remembered that I'd have to move to Pittsburgh if I wanted to see my Pens on a regular basis, instead of every five years or so. Which of course killed my enthusiasm immediately. So don't worry, I'm not in line (yet) for next year's season tickets.

At the Palace, by the lake

Last weekend I went to San Francisco. I survived two plane trips without getting H1N1 (yay!) and managed the Muni in Monday rush-hour with luggage. Power to the commuter!

On Saturday we (N & I) went to Santa Rosa to a wedding reception. It was a beautiful fall day - I didn't even need a jacket! It was for a mutual friend of ours whose pheromone experiment finally came to fruition, in a rather flaming hurry. She was a beautiful bride and we got "their" story from both sides. Unfortunately, I got sunburnt on the car trip as well. :(

Then after an interesting discussion on the merits of the production and marketing of pop religious music (of which we found few), we alit at the Palace of Fine Art. Don't ask me where it is, because I don't know. But I know it's not downtown or in the Mission. Anyway, we walked about before the hula show we had tickets for. It was just a bit windy, and the light of the sun setting made for some really great picture opportunities. We even saw more animals - some I'd never seen before in real life, like a bittern (which N hadn't seen either) and an egret. Up close! See how close:


The Palace was lit up. The moon seemed very close in person, but somehow it did not seem so close through the lens of the camera. It looks kind of like the Great Pumpkin, all lit up, does it not? Perhaps a bit later I'll show you the bittern and a series of me along the lake and against the Palace walls.