I'd like to call back summertime
And have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going
And I guess she'll have to go.
- J. Mitchell
For all my generalized abhorrence of holidays, one aspect bears considerable appeal: my beloved Christmas lights. Tiny bursts of unadulterated glee, marching one after the other in a parade of euphoria. I can scarcely wait to raid Stein's and embellish the existing insanity in my apartment. Drive around at night and gawk at others' creations (icicles have an irresistible appeal, despite their ubiquitousness in suburbs). Cruise home along the lake at night and catch a bright sprig of new color, then detour to investigate.
I clearly recall our first encounter, Christmas lights all but nonexistent even in a city overrun by Roman Catholics. They seemed the embodiment of magic - pinpricks of stars, glowing within reach, inspiring levity in everyone, brightening the psyche of all who set gaze upon them. People complain so extensively about this country, and I genuinely cannot understand why. As though they grew enveloped by all the treasures, and thus immune to their pizzazz. I'm so bloody grateful to reside here, yet all they do is complain.
