You,

I’ve decided to address some of these blog posts to you, in moments when I really feel like talking to someone but I really don’t want to seek you or anyone else out. Why not, for after all, maybe one day I’ll master the art of talking to one’s self. You know who you are, I assume, as you probably look in the mirror and think thoughts every day. I wonder how long it’s been since I have gone a day without looking in a mirror somewhere somehow. I’d not call myself vain, but it’s interesting how many mirrors and glass and metals exist in my day-to-day. Think about it…think about a lot of things…

Tonight, as I watch Netflix and sit on this couch which I have deemed the perfect perching spot in this room, I wonder what to do with the rest of my mind and my idle hands. The show, by the way, is called Rain – pardon me, it’s apparently called Reign actually, who knew – a historical fiction narrative about the coming-of-age of Mary Queen of Scots and her battle to survive the politics and drama of the French court. Well, I’ve decided to react for you, lovely reader out there.

First, background on why I’m watching this show to begin with. Two of my roommates this summer – one that we will call Prinses, and another that we will call Magdala (my other roommates will henceforth and forever be Licht and Gelhaas, respectively) – began the downward spiral that will be my summer, watching more television than I’ve seen in months. The two, bless their hearts, were more than a little excited to learn off-hand that I enjoy historical dramas and historical fiction, which contributed to their enthusiasm when they discovered that I also hadn’t heard of this Reign.

The colors in this show, the yellows and greens and browns and reds. The costumes in this show, the glitter and silk and dazzling ballgowns with lace. The accents in this show, French and English and Portuguese. The hairstyles in this show, braids and curls and waves. The historical accuracy of this show – maybe, perhaps, who knows or cares? Certainly not I. The insults in this show even have alliteration. For example, “the powerless princeling.”

And the musicccc. They already used “Pompeii” by Bastille, and Mumford and Sons, and even some subtle orchestral pieces that hint at recognition in a corner of my mind. I’ve already argued with Prinses and Magdala about the choice between Francis or Sebastian – I’ve always loved the name Sebastian, but Francis has whatever piece of my heart can be given to a fictional character in a fictional world that mirrors a fictional reality. Regardless, this show is brilliant so far. I tire with the all-too-common “let’s-be-so-dramatic-and-historically-realistic-that-every-new-show-is-practically-NC17” (cough Games of Thrones cough), so I appreciate a new Netflix show to binge-watch that doesn’t make me want to erase my memories and raise my future children under a rock.

Why do I watch anything with romance? Why do I fill my head with fancies? Why do I feel the need to express myself in prose-like rhetorical questions? Why is a posh, rich-looking blonde girl – a noblewoman, perhaps, or a lady of some kind – running through the forest under tense blue lighting, with ominous music playing ominously behind her?

I’ll find out. If I ever manage to learn the secret of telling a good story, or even of telling a passable story in the midst of a sparkling conversation without killing aforementioned conversation, then perhaps I’ll talk to you about it.

 

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