To Coronation Street (first letter)

I used to suffer through you.  My grandmother got my mother hooked, and then, well…  In retrospect, I didn’t have a chance.  No matter where I was between them, your relentless and indecipherable chatter would eventually permeate the room, lulling me into a confused kind of stasis.
People wanting people they can’t have.  People wanting other people dead.  People lying about what they want, what they’ve done and what they’re going to do.  People under the thumb of subsistence incomes.  Other people exploiting them.  People using people to change their circumstances.
Your endless parade of human suffering and foolishness marched right over my head.  I could only see, or more accurately, vaguely sense, a strange satisfaction overcome the matriarchs in my life.  Their want of Old World belonging would temporarily be sated.  Their unspoken colonial displacement was regularly forgotten as they identified with the fictionalized descendants of those who didn’t, or couldn’t, get on the boat.
I’ve written to Melodrama before and used to lump you in with it, but now I suspect some sort of important distinction should be made. I don’t believe you’re another empty repetition on the TV screen, a mechanical reflex of distraction or deferral, a Sisyphean loop in the service of concentrated wealth.
You reveal moments to me that aren’t conditioned by what I can want for my future or what I might’ve lost to my past (what I remember or imagine of, and for, myself).  The vortex of desire, of human folly, is relegated to a subservient role in facilitating glimpses of eternity, a consciousness of life beyond the mechanizations of want.
My life and how I live it has been emboldened by these returns.  Your relentless and indecipherable chatter has freed me more than once from the sordid limits and conditions of human nature in time.


I’m still tuning in.