27 February 2006

And more recently, the Rawandans, and more recently, our soldiers, their insurgents, their children, our business men falling out of windows, their boys lining up to be maimed, their women wailing, our women also falling out of windows. There's nothing at all apocalyptic or divine about dying for someone else's sins.

It must, however, serve some important task of evolution, since it is so inherent in our nature to suffer or cause suffering. Some of us enjoy receiving screws in our skull, some of us enjoy planting them. The rest of us who are too squeamish to take part are satisfied by the vicarious forms of violence provided by the entertainment industry, or to a lesser extent, books and religions and Francis Bacon paintings.

"I put a gun in her mouth while I raped her."

Some part of that, the gun, or the mouth itself, makes me intensely curious.



This past weekend flew by, as I knew it would, with lights and cameras and too many tasks to accomplish, and the idea of a full week looming before me now is wearing me thin.

slower.net gives me hope that I will make it through, however. It reminds me that there's absurdity going on around us all the time, if only I can keep my eyes open long enough to see it.

The few things that I was able to savor in the past two days: a really lovely red-wine-soaked chat about the good and bad things (big aspirations and little worries and tiny inklings of dreams and one big looming fear). The beautiful voice of a boy and when his mouth is near me.


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