's on notice. My mother is bored with it, I'm bored with it, and frankly, this week even reading people's commentary about it (85% of the enjoyment of Glee
, right there) wasn't that entertaining. They have until sectionals and then unless something amazing happens, I'm cutting this show lose. (Seriously, I said to myself, 'this is time you could be watching old episodes of TVD' and went, 'that sounds so much more fun than watching this.')
On the subject of TVD, yesterday at the vet I had a brief moment where I thought that because it was a Thursday, I was going to get a new Vampire Diaries. And then I remembered that I have another two weeks to go [imagine a frowny-face emoticon here].Black Dress
As I was also sitting in the vet, I realized that I am 95% sure that Caroline is my favorite female character. Which is BIZARRE given that for the entire first season I found her incredibly boring. (FYI, the list goes, I think, Caroline, Elena, Katherine.)
On the subject of female characters, ivanolix has a great post about standards for gender quality in tv.
On the subject of Caroline, I recently re-read this poem and it reminded me of her:
I could go no further than that first line:Spring comes even to the closet.
The words like little iron blossoms on a vine.
The parks full of people under a heathery sky.
The music of silverware, of violins.
Near the road, a woman paints
the pickets of her fence with blinding light.
When Herod sat down at the dinner table, the roasted
bird flew from the platter crying, "Christ lives! He is alive!"
It's spring, even at night.
The mushrooms damply reflect the stars.
All manner of pale flesh, opened up like eyes. Moonlight
on the jellyfish. In the dark
grass the startling muteness of a child's
white rubber rat.
But the closet. Even
in spring, the closet's a blind hive. A black dress
hangs at its center — like Persephone, it's
the closet's prisoner,
and its queen. Never forget,
it sings. I saw you then. I saw it all:
After the funeral, the riotous dance. After the wedding, the long
weeping and kneeling in the bathroom stall.
Oh, there are birds the world's
entirely forgotten (winter, amnesia) singing again
to the comings and the goings, the bright
and empty flashes,
the openings and closings. Sweetheart,
I'm leaving. Honey, I'm home.
black dress hangs always and omniscient in its single thought, its
accumulating mass — a darkness
tucked into another darkness:
where I wore it first,
where I'll wear it last.