Three days before the equinox of Rushing White Water, and the bats have been circling over the house.
Looking for water, looking for food. Looking for a place to hang their weary little bodies upside-down during the day.
Along with the bats come swarms of flying ants – or rather, as I’ve recently learned, flying termites.
The dogs snap at them and snack on them, those who don’t drown in the water bowls.
Days spent head down, Opeth on the headphones, concentrating hard on polishing up the last of the slight flaws in my code.
Watching Prometheus, hopefully. Looking for the rich milieu of ideas and germs of thought which good science fiction used to gift me with.
But finding nothing.
Over thirty years ago, Alien was cutting edge sci-fi and edge of the seat thriller.
Today, the back story of Prometheus appears old, tired and lacking in novelty altogether.
The ideas are now stale, the props laughable: the only thing we’ve gotten better at is lots of gore.
Even the Alien, in its full-grown glory, is nothing more than Lovecraft’s Cthulhu, waving his tentacles from behind the bulkhead.
So, we continue to get stupider; more unable to string two coherent ideas together, not able to raise goosebumps without washing the set with blood and sinew.
Or…is it I who grows older, and having seen if not “it all” then at least A Lot More Of It?