Outlander: of fascinations and frustrations — Part I
No show ever had encapsulated the feeling of reclining on a sofa imagining the events of the past with little references to bolster your wild conceptions in regard to the daily humdrum of the lost world. Certainly, I am but one of the few who relish such a past time; I have always harbored a lulling fascination with time and it’s cold footslog impressing its consequences upon the peasantry and the princely alike. Broodings such as these, I suppose, find a comfortable abode in my dreamy disposition. How vacant plots that scant their nourishment to the entreaties of vegetation yield to a lavish bungalow. How thrilling anecdotes that are far removed from the present condition recolor our lives, compelling us to reflect on the changes we have endured. Take note that the mind maunders beyond the commonly explored bittersweet expanse of nostalgia; for this emotive state harbors jurisdiction over solely those matters that are rooted under one’s personal remembrances whereas the thought adventures I speak of are grander in terms of the feeling they evoke within me.
Such is the strength of my ponderings that they returned triumphant from a quandary the subject of which was the latest TV show I had chanced upon whose inconceivable premise, much to my sheepishness, I had concluded would appeal to adolescent girls still under the tutelage of far-fetched tales of a hunk possessing an unblemished character stealing them away from their drab existence to carry them on an adventure. For a man priding on his rational eye, so much that his tv viewership was limited to infotainment throughout his teens and that he held scorn for any frivolous drama or worse, a content devoted to childish fantasies, I wasn’t supposed to pay heed to this historical fiction embroiled in fantasies and — slap me in the face — romance! My gaze fluttered from the screen as my mind’s eye flashed images of a couple in embrace, their eyes glistening, fervently mumbling sweet nothings to each other in the anticipation of a seething separation. I saw myself sneering at my sister for her poor choice of content, “Why don’t you ever watch NatGeo, ugh?” before I smugly left the room, assured in my better ways. An exasperation so contrived that it always managed to rattle the sibling, much to the joy of the younger brother. I inwardly cringed but just before my features could assume such meaning I yanked myself to the present moment under the panic of unearthing other similar artefacts of embarrassment whose existence I was unnervingly sure of. And in this artistic escape I momentarily felt safe, scooting and shifting rearwards in the sofa.
Understandably, the idea of the protagonist falling first into 18th century Scottish highlands and then into the lap of a spartan farmer did not tantalize me. But, with the dinner in front of me getting cold, I set the remote down and began to capitulate to the flirtatiously mystical atmosphere of the country that the show conveyed remarkably. After all, if none stood aware of my dereliction to duties how could my reputation be under question? The future me smirked.
A fortnight of indulgence departed; my features had invented avant-garde shades of crimson and soon, I discovered myself on phone with my girlfriend, gushing about how fantastic Outlander was. I swelled with radiance as I managed to ejaculate every detail of note that the mind beheld. Widely pacing around the house, I recounted the haunting beauty of Scottish countryside and the endearing northern English dialogues that pulled me in.
My idly sauntering faculties had secured an ally in Claire who provided them with vivid pictures that they had to labor upon with their own tools before; that the canvas was a country to which I owed no fealty scarcely posed any relevance: my ponderings merely desired to ogle. And thus, I was hooked! I dinna fash now for I had stumbled upon an unlikely binge-worthy content.