Oh dear, our last day together in Estonia. There's not much to tell.

We packed our things... well, we separated our things, into two suitcases. Pamela took most of the things I wouldn't be needing, because when she got back to Germany, she was being picked up in a car from the airport. -And when I'd get back, I'd be taking the bus into the center of town, and then catching a train. Have I said anything about this yet? I don't think so.

My holiday was for about five weeks. And then I'd have to start in at work again. Pamela only had two weeks of holiday though, and then she absolutely had to be back in the office. So, I was staying an additional week in Estonia after Pamela went back to work. Does this all make more sense now? And this Sunday was when Pamela was leaving. So, after packing, we had breakfast, and went together to the airport, after Pamela said goodbye to our ever so kind hostess, Ruta, Her husband-type Silver, and their son Uku.

We didn't have a whole lot of time to spare, catching the bus, and didn't have enough time waiting together in the airport before she had to go and catch the flight. (But then, when in love, the moments between being separated for a week can Never be long enough, can they? With what excitement we would have gladly heard that her flight was delayed for twelve hours. What joy that would have been!)

We parted, and I went to the flight deck, to watch her plane taxi. And then I went outside, to find a nice place to get a picture of the plane taking off. I found the perfect angle, with the sun, the forest, clouds in the right place, everything. And after a short wait, Pamela's plane came speeding down the runway... and lifted off when it was only about half way down. By the time the plane got to the framing I'd decided for, it was a little dot, halfway to the clouds. And too high up in the sky for any trees at all to be in the picture.

Do you know, I really despised that horrid plane. It took my dear Pamela away. Far away. What a horrid thing for it to do!!! (Mind you, I quite forgave it, and loved it more than anything else a week later, when it was taking me away to see Pamela again. Oh, how I adored the plane then!)

The feeling I had, after being together with Pamela all day, every day, for two weeks, was one of high loneliness. And perhaps some bitterness too. It made my smile ironic, and my outlook gloomy, and my poetic mind a-bubbly. This is a fact about me that I've noticed long ago; That when my life is nice, and I feel good, there is not a single poetic word which comes from me. Something has to be... missing. Something has to be out of place, and then I become an absolute literary fount of feelings. With my first love, it was being separated, and never seeing her at all. That's what was "wrong", and left me pouring out all my love into poems. When I was actually With her though, and could express everything directly to her... -when I was complete, in having her company, I had nothing to write down at all. (I actually tried a couple times too, thinking that there must be something to say about the best ten days of my life. But nothing. I got a couple of lines... and could think of nothing further.)

And in the rest of my life, the problem was always that I had No-one to love. Or that I had someone to love, but we'd never spoken, or that she wasn't the least bit interested in how I felt. And in all of those cases, I'd let my heart bleed onto lined paper. Or at times, my heart would fantasize onto lined paper. Or, perhaps, I would happen to be really, truly happy, but just had no one to share it with, so my heart bubbled over onto the lined paper.

But now, with Pamela, my life is complete. When I love, when I smile, when I regret, when I dream, when I feel amazed, it is all through Pamela I do not express myself more to my nearest friend, my pencil, I express myself to my dearest love, my Pamela. And then I never seem to have anything more, which wants to be written down. This was annoying though, because I always liked the poetry I wrote, and thought it was quite good. But try as I might, I could find nothing more, which I wanted to say through it.

I've gone through all this, because when Pamela left in the plane, and my eyes became a lifeless grey, I suddenly had an urge to return to my beloved pencil again, and tell it how I felt. And it was a bit awkward to write, and to form verses, but I felt that it was just the result of not having written poetry for so long. And was the result any good? I don't know. Once I got back to Germany, I more or less forgot about it. So it hasn't been revised, and made smooth. Perhaps... I might look into it this week.

Anyhow, on this Long, long, long, Sunday afternoon, (just like the song in the musical "blood brothers,") I had to something with myself. My first plan, was to go and get a picture of Mahtra, where I lived during my first year in Estonia. I'd never gotten a picture, which expressed the depressing air of that place. I didn't have any pictures that showed just how Horrible Ugly it was, (And it truly Was an eye sore.) And I really regretted this want that I had. The Lasname region of Tallinn had become symbolic to me, and very meaningful, as the most horrible housing I'd seen. So, with the grey dullness in my eyes and heart, I went to take pictures of the grey dulness of concrete. (And was quite pleased, knowing that my result was Sure to communicate despondency. The photographs were sure to be Completely expressive.)

And I found that most of them were, indeed, quite stark, and missing joy. Depressing, in fact. The One though, the One I'd longed to take, which I'd seen in my imagination again, and again, was a bit difficult. No, Very difficult. It was going to be a shot from a good distance, which would take in the entire part of the town. I was going to take it standing on top of the bus stop, out beside a school, and vacant lots. So in that desolate nowhere, I got off the bus, and waited for there to be no one else around.

But the bus stop was not easily climbable. And the roof of it didn't look at all strong. And the trees were in full life, with thick foliage. That particular picture was not going to work out at all the way I planned it. BUT... I thought to myself, "If only the trees weren't in the way! This is still a good angle to take a picture of that neighborhood." -Well, if the tree branches are in the way, then you can either cut them down, or climb up on top of them. And as I didn't have a saw with me...

Looking for a way to get to the tallest tree in the over-grown mess of that abandoned ground was difficult though. On one side of it was broken giant slabs of concrete, and then endless brambles. And on the other side, and around that corner too, was swamp. Not absolute swamp... but more like a ditch, which had reproduced, and divided, and covered a large area. And that's the rout I took.

Very carefully. Ever so slowly, working this way and that, I made my way over the lumps and bumps of earth with trees and bushes growing out of them, alternated with Oozing mud and stagnant black water. It was quite a challenge, to get anywhere. After perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, I got to a comparatively tall tree, and thought it was the best possible, without going much further, with great difficulty, into the swamp. So, up I went, with the same slow, precise movements that had gotten me across the mud and ooze, without getting myself filthy.

When I felt the tree wouldn't like me climbing any higher, and I had a comparatively clear shot of the concrete houses... I cursed. It wasn't expressing depression at All how I'd wanted it to. Even with my telephoto lens, I could not get the young leafy trees all about me completely out of the shot. (And how depressing can a picture be, when there are young, leafy trees in it?) I actually looked about, up there, to see if there might be better trees to climb to take the picture. But no; I was in about the highest one there was. So, I took the damned picture. The one I'd wanted to take for four years. -Then I climbed back down. And very slowly, retraced my steps. And was a little worried a couple of times, about finding the path I took. It wasn't possible for me to get lost. It was only twenty or thirty meters to the road, and I could hear the traffic. But... could I get out of there without having to go knee-high into the mud? That's what was worrying me.

It didn't turn out to be so hard to do though. And I was soon back at the bus stop, and thinking about what I'd do with the rest of my day. I decided to take a bit of a walk, (where I took more gloomy photos of decay and cement. These turned out Much better than my one from the tree.) Then I took the bus back to the main bus station, where I went to the market.

After getting some food, I just went right back to Ruta's to cook it, and watched a movie with her and her sister that evening. And that's all that happened on that day.