True Blood worth watching again? Surely not?

There is no easy way to say this. I hated seasons three and especially four of the HBO television series True Blood. In fact, the only reason I even bothered with season five can be summed up with the name Anna Paquin. I am not exaggerating when I say that Anna is in a rare class of actor (along with the like of Sir Ian McKellen, Sir Patrick Stuart, and Michael Fassbender) whom I could watch sitting in a plain chair against a white background, reading the ‘phone book.

So, the lustre has dulled…

I am not sure when it was, but I placed a pre-order at the local JB Hi-Fi for the fourth season of True Blood. I will not go into the story about how a certain lapse in customer service meant that rather than pay for it when I had the money to spare, I ended up in financial distress again. Instead, I want to talk about how I felt after watching it.

In the absence of hope, the Powell type attacks himself…

Sometimes, coming up with a topic more substantive than what music I am listening to or what films I am watching is surprisingly difficult. Although inspiration and ideas come at everyone in a literally non-stop flow, everyone processes such input in a substantially different manner. When I look at a creek or a concrete floodway that has substantial vegetative overgrowth, for example, I might form ideas in my mind’s video camera that totally miss others. Even when those others might have substantially similar DNA to myself. And the quality of the journey, as well as that of the sights, will have a substantial effect upon the ideas that I might have. So an attempted trip to a point further into the metropolis that ends with giving up and returning home, and losing about five hours in the process, tends to result in a dearth of ideas concerning what to write about. This is not so much an attempt to make excuses, however, as to simply provide a credible explanation as to why the flow of writings on this account has a way of alternating between drought and monsoon. It has always been this way for me, and I think that if you meet a person who claims they are a writer of any sort and then proceeds to claim that they have never experienced a dry spell of words coming from brain to keyboard, you have met a liar. Whether they are lying about doing any substantive form of writing or about having difficulty about getting words onto their proverbial page is beside the point. The point is that irrespective of the manner in which you slice it, they are lying.