P as in Pterodactyl

Pranked.

One year at camp, this letter came for me in the mail:

“Dearest Katy,

It has been ages since we last spoke - far too long in my mind.  I miss hearing the silken tones of your soft voice in passing and catching the gaze of your beautiful eyes from afar.  I am writing with hopes that you will see it fit for me to meet with you before I leave for University and you for London.  If what I wish should come true, our love must first be granted an opportunity to bloom.  I cannot bear being apart from you for one more day.

I understand, however, that you camp is beloved to you and I couldn’t bear the guilt of asking you to leave.  Rather, I have gathered sufficient information that will allow me to gain access to a remote part of the castle [Camp takes place in a castle boarding school - it’s as cool as it sounds].  Please meet me tonight on the chapel stairs, leading to the balcony, come 11 o’clock.  I would be most honoured should you choose to join me this evening.  Please do not refuse this invitation for it should surely be my heart’s end.  I shall wait with bated breath for your arrival.

Affectionately yours, with a heart full of hope,

A Secret Admirer”

I believed every word of it, in all its hyperbolic glory.  I went to the chapel that night, and found this:

“Dearest Katy,

First and foremost I must apologize for not coming to meet you this evening.  I had a last moment bout of panic that you would not receive me with open arms, and would not have been able to retain my composure should you reject me now.  I leave this [a single rose] in hopes that you will not forsake me, rather would be better prepared for when we achieve what is doubtless our destiny.  I shall correspond with you once more, and shall hope to catch your eye come Sunday.

Let me remind you that you remain the one woman for me, and that my heart palpitates at mere thoughts of your smile.  You bring paradise before my eyes and fill my soul with wonder, that you for being in my life, even in this tiny little way.

Enjoy my small token of my affection. ‘Till the stars bring us together once more,

Yours forever, 

S.A.”

Once again, I believed it.  And spent the next two days trying to figure out who it was that sent me the letters - talking to my friends, making guesses, asking opinions, being quite giddy, avoiding someone I thought it might be on Sunday.

The next night, one of the other counselors came to get me saying someone was here to see me.  She blindfolded me, and led me into the other room where the piano was being played.  The blindfold was taken off, and there were all the counselors, stifling their laughter, and admitting it was all a joke.  

I was the only one in the ENTIRE camp that didn’t realize the whole thing was big prank.  I had fallen for it like they never believed.  We all had a good laugh.  Looking back, it was the most gullible I have EVER been.  I had no idea.  Amazing what flowery language can do to a girl! :)

Lensbaby: learning to love the imperfect

I bought a Lensbaby at Christmas, but only just this week started taking it out and experimenting with it.  I think I have figured out why I hadn’t before now: you have to learn to accept the imperfections of the photos.  They will never be “perfect” with a Lensbaby…and that’s the point!  That is what is so unique about it, but it’s hard to get your mind around that idea when so much of photography is about getting that “perfect” shot - perfect framing, exposure, lighting.  With Lensbaby, all those things are up in the air and I’ve had to retrain myself a little bit.

Lensbaby is a flexible lens and completely manual.  There is a “sweet spot” of focused area that you control with your fingers on the front of the lens, moving it around until the subject you want is in focus.  Discs with different sized openings control the aperture.  Pretty crazy.  Pretty fun.

But not perfect in the usual sense of the word.  The pictures are perfect for what they are, of course, and I’ve realized I love it.

Currently Reading: Roald Dahl Short Stories

I am working my way through a collection of Roald Dahl’s short stories.  There is not a single one that has disappointed me.  He has a style that is quite unique.  His writing is full of dark humour.  He knows exactly how to set up an ending, so that the reader makes the conclusion for themselves without having to state it outright.  I like that.  It puts the ball in the reader’s court; he knows that his readers are not stupid.

For example, read the Landlady and see for yourself.

i don’t think my life is interesting enough for this kind of thing.

Watching soccer…

just wouldn’t be the same with a non-British commentator.  So glad the CBC hired a British man to do the world cup commentating.