We can't command our love, but we can our actions.

 

You might have seen my recent obsession update a couple of weeks ago; on that front I don't have much to add, except maybe to add that I am watching the first seasons of In Plain Sight and Leverage ergo Marshall Mann and Eliot Spencer have gained a place on my list as well. But I am still much the same, and by that I mean absolutely riveted with the BBC Sherlock.

 

There is one final episode of the first series I have yet to watch that will air on PBS's Masterpiece Mystery Theater tonight. Could I have watched it already on the internet? Yes. Have I? Will I? No, for two reasons. the first is out of practicality: my laptop screen is dying. For general internet and word processing, the screen isn't terrible, but pictures are sketchy, and videos look horrendous. It's especially difficult to discern what's happening if filming leans toward the low, almost nonexistent lighting and muted colors Sherlock tends to favor. The second reason: I think waiting is fun. Some people are dying to know what they're getting for Christmahanukwanzaakah and will do all sorts of snooping to find out early what it is they're getting. I am not one of those people. I prefer to wait, to look at the presents all wrapped up pretty with a bow on top, and wonder. Growing up, there was some "playing pretend" about Santa, but my sister and I never believed in him. The enchantment of Christmas came (at least for me, my sister is the snooping kind) from shiny decorations, twinkle lights, eating way more candy than was normally allowed, hoping people would love what I bought them, and (perhaps most significantly) "the wait. I love every minute of the wait, its magic. Stuff is just stuff, even if it's new and someone else bought it for me, but the wait, the wonder, the guessing make "just stuff" into excitement and anticipation. So, I wait all week every week without peeking at the videos online for the next episode to air, and every week I have a "mini-Christmas", a private celebration to cheer me before another anonymous week of "how can I help?" starts.

 

We can't command our love, but we can our actions.

 

You might have seen my recent obsession update a couple of weeks ago; on that front I don't have much to add, except maybe to add that I am watching the first seasons of In Plain Sight and Leverage ergo Marshall Mann and Eliot Spencer have gained a place on my list as well. But I am still much the same, and by that I mean absolutely riveted with the BBC Sherlock.

 

There is one final episode of the first series I have yet to watch that will air on PBS's Masterpiece Mystery Theater tonight. Could I have watched it already on the internet? Yes. Have I? Will I? No, for two reasons. the first is out of practicality: my laptop screen is dying. For general internet and word processing, the screen isn't terrible, but pictures are sketchy, and videos look horrendous. It's especially difficult to discern what's happening if filming leans toward the low, almost nonexistent lighting and muted colors Sherlock tends to favor. The second reason: I think waiting is fun. Some people are dying to know what they're getting for Christmahanukwanzaakah and will do all sorts of snooping to find out early what it is they're getting. I am not one of those people. I prefer to wait, to look at the presents all wrapped up pretty with a bow on top, and wonder. Growing up, there was some "playing pretend" about Santa, but my sister and I never believed in him. The enchantment of Christmas came (at least for me, my sister is the snooping kind) from shiny decorations, twinkle lights, eating way more candy than was normally allowed, hoping people would love what I bought them, and (perhaps most significantly) "the wait. I love every minute of the wait, its magic. Stuff is just stuff, even if it's new and someone else bought it for me, but the wait, the wonder, the guessing make "just stuff" into excitement and anticipation. So, I wait all week every week without peeking at the videos online for the next episode to air, and every week I have a "mini-Christmas", a private celebration to cheer me before another anonymous week of "how can I help?" starts.