Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Good evening, gentle readers.
It's Monday and I am lying here in bed, reading about DEATH.  Or maybe that should be DEATH.
Specifically, I'm reading Smoke Gets In Your Eyes by Caitlin Doughty.  The book is about Ms. Doughty's first six years working in the American funeral industry.
I first discovered Ms. Doughty via YouTube.  She has an interesting channel, mordant and witty, where she does videos ranging from how to deal with the passing of a beloved pet, to the dark questions children have asked her about what happens when we die.
So far, I've found her book both interesting and entertaining.
There are worse ways to spend your Monday evenings.
Trust me.
I know.
What next? DEATH.
But, not like, immediately next.
Just, y'know, at some indefinite point in the far, FAR future.
Hopefully.
^_^

Into the Badlands S01E01 'The Fort'

Into the Badlands is described as "a genre-bending martial arts series" loosely inspired by the Chinese tale, 'Into the West.'
The premise certainly sounds interesting, but the first episode was anything but.  Although visually striking, the show lacks any real depth.  To be quite honest, this first episode bored me to tears.  Even the fight scenes, although well choreographed and performed, seemed to lack any real intensity. The actors shamble through the scenery with all the vigor and vim of a troop of zombies.
Perhaps the show improves later, but after watching this premier, I have very little interest in wasting more time to find out.

Thank you

Hello, gentle readers.

Tomorrow, here in the States, it will be Thanksgiving.

I just wanted to take a moment and say 'Thank you,' to all my readers.

I appreciate your support.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving.

- G.

Jessica Jones S01E01 "Ladies' Night'

So, I just watched the first episode of Jessica Jones on Netflix.  I have to admit that I went into the show with some bias; I've read Alias, the Marvel Comic that inspired the series.  Honestly, I didn't think much of that, and, apparently, neither did the bulk of readers because Alias was cancelled after twentysomething issues.
Gentle readers, I wasn't impressed with Jessica Jones.  The acting in the first ep was mediocre, the plot was uninteresting, the pacing was atrocious.  Thirty minutes into the episode, I wanted to turn it off, but decided I should tought it out.
I regret that.
On a scale of 1 to 5, I would give this show 2 stars.  I have no desire to watch another episode.  However, in all fairness, Daredevil doesn't do anything for me either.

Black Birds

My life is full of poisonous birds,

black as sin, black as pitch,

that lurk in the branches of skeletal trees.

They descend upon me, en mass, these black birds,

and rip and tear at me,

my face, my hair, my clothes,

with their black razor beaks and claws.

I wave my arms about my face, 

shouting and swearing,

head bent low as I run for cover.

The birds follow.

I take refuge indoors, 

peering through paper-thin glass panes,

peering at the birds,

watching me watch them.

They sit in black lines along tree limbs

and power lines and the tops of fences.

The black birds sit and watch and wait,

sharpening their beaks and claws.

My life is full of poisonous black birds,

black as sin, black as pitch,

waiting for me to step outside.

Forward

Sometimes, gentle readers, it feels like I can never get ahead.  For every step that I take forward, I'm suddenly forced to take two steps backwards.  It's frustrating and dispiriting, but I endure. I keep trying to walk forward because the alternative is to stand still, to be rooted to the spot, bound in place by circumstance and fear.
That's no way to live.
So, keep walking forward.  Push yourself against the wind.  Even if it does knock you back, even if your progress seems glacial, know that you're still moving ahead.
Be brave.
Be stubborn.
Be courageous.
Be yourself.

November

October has left, flouncing out in a black dress that felt more like a shroud than her usual party number.  As she exits, November enters.  The bitch-month.
Normally as cold and precise as a math problem, November seems weirdly unfocused as she takes charge. Her ebon hair is slightly mussed, her makeup just a little smudged.  There's an uncharacteristic run in her black stockings, exposing a narrow swath of ice-white flesh.
But the expression on her face is classic November, composed and unyielding.  No warmth radiates from her jet-black eyes and her mouth is set in a tight moue.
She settles into her chair, all black leather and burnished brass; it's the kind of chair an expensive dominatrix might have in her office.  November sits and grips the arms and takes a deep breath; the air in the room grows chilly.  Frost forms at the edges of the windows.  In the fireplace, the flames flicker for a moment and burn with a baleful blue light.
November drums her manicured fingers on the armrests. Leaves tumble off of the stick-like trees. Lingering geese suddenly take to the air, flapping madly southward, cold tiger-winds snapping at their tail feathers.
In her office, November tidies up.  She smooths her hair into place and fixes her makeup.  She examines her face in the mirrored surface of her obsidian desk.  When she is satisfied with her appearance, she settles back in her chair and folds her hands together.  She smiles, a slow, reptilian grimace and draws a second breath, sucking the last bits of heat and daylight from the air. Her exhalation is a stream of cold fog.
"Now," she purrs, in a voice like light bouncing off razorblades, 'let's get started."
November is a bitch.
Never trust November.