I was watching a couple of back episodes in preparation for tonight's premiere of the new season of Being Human on BBC America. Initially, the show was intriguing in only a minor way, but as I watched it again, I was overcome with the deep and lyrical sense of longing that permeates it. Every character is waiting for something to happen.
I took a walk early this afternoon. On the way out, I looked down the corridor of my apartment building, so similar to Annie's trip to Purgatory -- old walls, tiled floors, dim lights, wrinkled voices behind sad doors. The March wind picked up and tossed poplar seeds along the traffic islands. Children and parents grabbed at hats that almost blew off their heads. Shoppers from Trader Joe's clutched the handles of their paper shopping bags relentlessly. March wind blowing in February. Strange brew. Lights came on as the day grew darker.
There is a feeling that something big is about to happen. For a flash, the hallway of my building seemed narrow, darker, ill-lit. The voices were silent for a moment. Then the elevator door opened and a tall blonde girl got out. She pounded on the door of an apartment, waited, pounded again. I could smell cooking smoke. I went down to the mailboxes and when I returned she stood there, still.
Three o'clock came and went. Clouds came and went. The streets are crowded but quiet. All seems like a ghostly prelude to something, the power of art, the power of music and these old ghosts stand in the wings. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for something to change.