As I write, I can hear bagpipes off in the distance. Eerie it sounds and I can’t place the melody, sometimes it strikes me as if it’s my imagination leaching outwards. Thin pipes, a cold green sound. It’s dark and I wonder what it could be for. A procession across the meadows, I hope. A slow walk in honour of the absent Spring.
I’ve written another piece for The Female Gaze (who you can follow on Twitter – @femalegazemag to keep yourself in essays written by some other smart and enthusiastic female writers). When I say I’ve written a piece, I mean, a piece of a whole: the essay is one of eight, on the subject of a TV show called Supernatural. Which I might be a tad obsessed with. The world of the show is rich and the landscapes are haunting and the stories both brash and striking and subtle and moving. Like all the best shows, it is not perfect, but leaves the perfect amount of room for your own thoughts. So here begins the textual reading, seven more to come:
Some great shows you are lucky enough watch when they come out, strung along week after week by the drama and the comedy and the dud notes and whatever else. Unlike Kirsty Logan, I watched all of the early seasons of X-Files in this way when I was a dour teen – fortunate that I could because of the few years delay the UK had in broadcasting it. I even had an X Files poster, a fact that had remained buried until I revisited the show and it struck me how much I had really been into it, thrown myself into its creepiness. I still remember being massively freaked out by certain monsters (if you have seen it you know who I mean by Eugene Victor Tooms. *shudder*). I also remember marveling at the American countryside, with its deep dark woods and stark, open prairies, its endless open road. I suppose I didn’t realise how the imaginative space that X-Files tapped into had remained open in me, a little soft spot on the top of my head, waiting.