I want to thank the life work of Agatha Christie and David Suchet for helping me escape from a post-Covid low.
I must state that I realize I’ve struggled for the past few years. I use to create and share my work with a sense of enthusiasm and purpose. I was effortlessly passionate about everything I did in life. But one small encounter at a time I began to feel that the fire I brought to the world had no value or worse yet, wasn’t needed.
Somewhere in the mess of Covid-19, I forgot who I was. Or rather, I had to boot up in safe mode for a while, which required me to hang up some bits of myself… for the sake of healing old wounds. I’ve felt adrift for so long now that I began to fear I’d remain lost in a listless fog. But as they say, no storm lasts forever, and I’m grateful that the start of this year has brought with it tiny sparks. I know from experience that if you gather enough in one place, they can ignite a blaze.
With kindling at hand, I started watching a show that I really like.
But, this is out of character for me since I generally avoid media consumption. I view the ideas I expose myself to much like food. There are a lot of things you *can* put in your body. Some are packed with nutrients, while others may taste delicious but are processed from chemicals, potentially harmful to you. Media is much the same thing. Humans absorb ideas in an instant. Impressions become embedded quickly in the subconscious with lasting consequence. Not all that you consume is good for one’s mind. So, I’m careful what I expose myself to, knowing whatever I consume will influence my perception of things and therefore my actions.
The small bit of my time that does go to watching anything, is spent on PBS, public broadcasting. As it is a channel local to the city I live in, the transmitter for said station is up on top of a small mountain not far from where we live. Slap a few feet of wire onto any TV in the house and you have a fair enough antenna to pick it up and enjoy quality productions! We’ve been doing so in the kitchen (the warmest room of the house). Since we’ve been using the heat sparingly this winter, it’s where I’ve setup shop with a big screen for enjoying movies and games.
On Thursday nights, the PBS channel broadcasts shows from Masterpiece Theater. Specifically those inspired by Agatha Christie’s mystery murder novels. My partner was the one to key in on this schedule detail, and had been tuning in for the past couple months while we work. I largely ignore the TV, happily caught up in my own thoughts. But a particular show broke through my stalwart defenses. It ticked some personal check boxes of my own fancy and awoke a former version of myself who I haven’t been for a while.
Late at night, after Agatha Christie’s Mrs Marple succeeds at solving a murder, the dapper Hercule Poirot takes the stage at 9:30pm to suss out crimes and wrap up their loose ends using his sharp intellect. Normally the show serves as background noise and periodic amusement when I glance upward to delight in his cheeky handlebar mustache. But a few weeks ago my attention was stollen for a minute or two too long and something happened in my mind. I can’t remember the last time I’ve watched something and become so utterly captivated I forgot I physically exist. Am I even breathing?
Taken off guard completely, I find myself very into the particular episode airing (Five Little Pigs). The story glides towards its dramatic conclusion as the rising action begins to unfold. All the while, I hadn’t realized that my body had pivoted into this awful sideways posture, neck swiveled to see the screen from where I was sitting. Without thinking, I readjusted my body to relieve my aching muscles, and at the exact moment I broke poise, the audio on the TV cut out. The picture began to pixelate into black rectangles. No! Without thinking I moved back into my previous position and like a switch the picture reemerged and the audio recovered. It hit me in a revelation of panic that I was part of the antenna receiving the channel.
The entire makeup of the room, as well as the details of my body had become the receiver for the broadcast of the PBS station from the mountain directly behind me some miles away. Whether I wanted it or not, I was tied up in this surprise FM bondage, unable to relax my aching body, lest I miss out on the delivery of Monsieur Poirot’s monologue. Circumstance whispered to me, “If you want this, you’ll have to sit still and be a good girl.” And I very much wanted it, so I obeyed. At the cost of my immediate comfort.
Afraid to breathe, I sat physically miserable, only a moment or so later forgetting about my body altogether. I was drawn back into the words delicately dripped over my mind like fingers tickling my most sensitive skin. Mind skin. Which took precedence over my feeble flesh husk of an antenna. Sit still!
After listening to Monsieur Poirot’s sensually delivered exposé this night, I realized that I had just fallen madly smitten with everything about the show: period, characters, context, and its wonderful star, Hercule Poirot.
But what’s not to love? The presentation style of an episode’s story is a delight. It takes my attention and gently leads it through each plot element, gussied with the correct amount of pre-World War II romanticism. My anticipation is built up at such a steady intentional pace that I barely notice I’ve been teased to the edge of my seat. At which point, once fully engulfed, the final monologue is delivered. Poirot’s masterfully architected conclusion; a carefully constructed argument based on the detailed assessment of all that his nuanced attention had gathered. Spoken in a whisper like poetry in a soft Belgian-French accent. A performance beautiful to behold.
Hercule Poirot, a detective with the prowess of Sherlock Holmes, laurels of James Bond, and the compulsiveness of Monk, is the hero I need at this point in my life. The right medicine at the right time. Casually saving the day, not because he’s strong or a battle-ready fighter, but because he’s analytical and clever, classy while wonderfully eccentric. And most importantly, aware of and willing to wield his unique qualities as strengths!
I do a bit of research on the things that interest me. Though not extensively defined yet in her time, it’s speculated Agatha Christie’s Poirot was most certainly the obsessive compulsive sort. The character has many nuanced behaviors that are relatable for me. I appreciate how faithfully this level of fussiness was portrayed by the actor, David Suchet, who I was pleased to learn did so with great intention.
I strongly believe representation in media matters. It makes me feel pride and empowerment to see neurological differences portrayed as acute strengths and unique assets rather than obstacles that result in trauma as they are so commonly. I prefer that difference is celebrated as the spice to life that it is. For that, in a way, the show helped me remember who I am.
Oh, but that new love feeling! How it can shock life back into the dead. I gathered this fuel and have been riding it like lightening these past few weeks. The kindling I brought with me indeed caught fire, and suddenly I feel alive again. As if I never succumbed to depression in the first place. I grant myself permission to celebrate the details of my life with passion, whatever they may be, as all things are important… even the details. Especially the details.
I’m lucky. Our library has every season of Poirot available to check out. As this British masterpiece ran for 13 seasons over a span of 22 years (wow!), I’m happy to be set up with a supply of my new drug for at least a little while. I can watch it the way one wraps in a comfort blanket when needed.
Since acquiring the first 3 seasons, I find that I’m checking the news less, sparing little attention to social media, and letting go of the things I can’t change about the world. Most importantly, I’m remembering that my qualities, even the strange ones that inconvenience the normal social order, are assets, not flaws. My fire is needed, and if I wield it with intention, I may help save everything I love in a way only I can. Something I’d have forgotten if not for getting slapped in the face (ever so politely) by Hercule Poirot.
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