Looking out, I see that the lights are up, but (and this is rare) I’m not impressed.

It’s late autumn, and the courtyard outside the dust streaked window of my gym is once again alive with holiday lighting.

The brick plaza is covered with ice, waiting for the skaters sharp blades to wound it, and the healing power of the zambony to make it whole again.

That at least remains the same. For now anyway.

But the lights, though still white, and no doubt ordained ny code and custom, are pushing the edges of their envelopes.

The Two trees in front are sparkling like a frenetic firework display. Strobing in a pattern that looks random, until you see it repeat.

Look at meeee! Look at MeEeEeE! Look at meeee! Not that I have anything to say.

Except that.

The stars of the show are the little groves that flank the square of ice. Brilliant blue-white chains of light, sporting this year’s newest fashion, droplets of light falling endlessly to the ground.

As a famous witch one cried, “I’m melting….melting….”

So it goes.

If I went down there, into the dark morning square, and reached out to touch one of those lights,

I know it would be cold, lit by some trick of quantum states, rather than the way the old ones were, too hot to touch, illuminated by the passions of molecules vibrating with energy.

I miss their warm white light, and am not fond of this cold brilliance that stings my eyes.

Dazzling them with their lies of making things new again.