It is the time of year that officially means that summer is over. New fall seasons of tv start and the summer shows are ending.
One of my favorites for a couple years has been Weeds. Awesome show! Crazy situations. The first two seasons made me want to upgrade the cable to HBO. The third season was a bit far out, and the fourth just ended. They kind of eased off on some of the craziness, but the end of the season was super-duper -- I don't even know how to describe the weirdness and the basic anger that I felt for some of the characters on the show.
I can now cut off my HBO -- really not even sure why I got it since a lot of the episodes I was watching online, but sometimes it just feels nice to watch it on tv when it is first shown.
Every time the last few seasons have ended, I have said that there is no way I can watch another season of Weeds if it keeps getting more and more crazy, that I would boycott. But maybe they have some sort of crack that comes at you through the screens, because it just keeps me coming back. Maybe I am hoping for some sort of closure, for some sort of resolution, for Nancy to get rich quick and then give it up, for the DEA to hook up with one of the drug dealers, for the chil'run to get kidnapped for doing some stupid stuff, for Celia to just crash and have her children or husband do something really horrible to her (well, that is finally about to happen -- possibly) I don't know, something. But it never seems to happen. There is just more and more drama.
But I am excited to watch another season.
In the mean time, I have a lot of fall shows to use to add to my procrastination-of-necessary-work habit.
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches,
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard.
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings,
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm.
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
the bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
----- by aoc power leveling