Stormy outside, a lovely wind knocking over my plants and swishing the bamboo around. My lungs are full of bad news and so I have had to stay still. Stillness is good for the poet. If I move I cough, if I cough I hurt and I don't like to hurt. The muscles in my back are wrecked from sustaining so many coughs and the tension has eased itself into every part of my body. I am a tight spring this Sunday evening but I am writing so it is good. A little break to put some things together, make a meal and blog a bit.
I hate romantic comedies. I say I hate them because I secretly almost sometimes love them. When I don't feel well I always end up watching them. Formula formula formula. Two people who should be together, misinterpreted signals, the coming together, the falling apart, the inevitable chase scene followed by the confession of love, reconciliation and credits. Bah. And always the quirky best pal, the wise fool. Enough already. We've seen the same movie dozens of times. The formula is played out. But when moon is nearing full and my body's hormones are wacky, I confess I cry watching. Dang it.
My new favorite addiction is HBO's True Blood. Here are the opening credits:
The show is sexy, smart and well-written. I love Sookie Stackhouse and her Vampire boyfriend. I love how well the characters are developed and believable, flawed just enough to make them endearing. Vampires are in, apparently.