kdiddy.org

First off, I apologize in advance for a post that’s generally a downer at a time when folks are trying to focus on happiness, but I have to get this off my chest.

The other day, Tracey sent this link to the MamaPop writers. A group of teenagers in Ukraine brutally murdered people and took video of themselves in the act. A brief discussion among us followed, mostly expressing disgust at the actions of the teenagers and at the details that were available. Everyone mentioned reading a bit of the transcript, but not being able to look at the video that was included.

I looked.

Only for a few seconds, but long enough to realize what I was watching and what I was doing by watching.

I’m fascinated by death and particularly by deaths that are wrapped in crime. One of my favorite books is Shots in the Dark and I think post-mortem photography in general is an incredible art form. I’m not sure why. I’ve pored over those pictures and contemplated how peaceful the subjects look, even if their deaths were violent. Everything in their life led up to that moment and we all share that fate. We will all be stared at by people looking down at us and we will be unable to change their perception.

I’m also a huge fan of all manner of fucked up movies. I have my limits, of course…I’m thinking specifically of Audition and Japanese horror in general. Something about that type of cinema just doesn’t sit right with me. But I’ve seen some rather unspeakable things thanks to movies.

Somehow, looking at still images, especially in black and white, and watching films of actors, even if they’re based on a true story, is extremely different than watching that video. Perhaps the crime photos seem more kosher since they’re taken by a third party who is actually performing a service.

I told Tracey that I didn’t even know why I watched it. Morbid curiosity. Voyeuristic temptation. And I think, prior to clicking “play,” I didn’t totally believe it was what it was purported to be. What did I stand to gain by watching such a thing? Validation that such things, unimaginable as they may be, actually occur? Scratching some unacceptable itch?

I’ve always been fascinated and terrified by serial killers and people who murder for no apparent reason, at random. They set their own criteria, identify those who sin in their eyes, and deal them their punishment. From the time that I understood what these people did and how they did it, I’ve always been at least a little afraid that I would end up one of those random people. Our house being burgled last year by a man who crept into our house while we slept just a few feet above only exacerbated those fears. I’m still not able to watch my fucked up movies without feeling at least a little bit of panic.

The things that I saw in those seconds of jerky, cellphone video. I saw the nauseating glee. I saw beings who resembled humans and maybe once, a long time and a different reality ago, were humans that went grocery shopping and paid bills and stopped at red lights. And I saw…a face. Or something, a bloody, desecrated, disgusting, violated mess that used to be a face. And I could still see the question of, “Why?” running through a mind that was soon to stop functioning completely. And I could hear the echo of, “Why not me? Yet?” in the back of my brain.

It disturbed me in a way that I didn’t know possible. My worst nightmare came true for someone else and I watched it happen. I didn’t wield that hammer, but I might as well have stood there, in that cold, bleak forest, and watched it unfold.

By the time my brain said, “No. Stop,” I hadn’t assured myself of the slim chances of this ever happening to me or someone I know. I hadn’t cured myself of my paranoia. And I didn’t feel like I had a deeper understanding of how messed up this world is.

I had only accomplished one thing: watching someone be murdered.

Maybe I was stroking that part of my mortality that tries to deny itself, the part that likes to believe that I will call the shots, and if I cannot, I will call the shots for someone else. What separates me from Them?

I suppose what separates me is that I felt the urge to apologize after I chose to silence the giddy foreign language and the moist gargling breaths and the crunching leaves and the plastic bags. When I stopped, a different ending was still possible. Media feeds me truth and lies and joy and pain. And the brutal epiphany that reality and my place in it is more fluid than I’d like to admit. I’m sorry.

Long live the new flesh.

There was nothing on TV this morning so I started watching I Love Lucy and while I was watching it, I was looking at Google Reader and there were TWO Lucy-related secrets today. Weird, no?

A friend of the husband’s was in town last night to play records at AVA and he was supposed to stay the night at our house. So, I spent pretty much all day cleaning. Our house is always pretty messy and dusty since we never really have time or energy to clean. The husband is, of course, out of commission with his hand so I was on my own and had a pretty sobering moment when I realized that I couldn’t possibly clean the whole house myself and had to determine which parts were the nastiest/most potentially embarrassing.

About 15 minutes after I finished cleaning the bathrooms and was sprawled out on the bed panting, the husband came home from work and announced that he had to poop. After he emerged, I whined, “I don’t know why you always do that right after I do the toilets.”

“That’s why I don’t like cleaning,” he replied. “It’s a Sisyphean effort. You’re Sisyphus.”

“Yes, and you’re this huge rock that shits all over my squeaky clean toilets.”

And then…THEN. The husband’s friend called and said that he was meeting up with “a friend” in town and would be staying at a hotel, after all.

GAHHHH

Well, at least the house is clean. I guess. Whatever.

In continuing in my Suzy Homemaker routine, I’m baking some homemade Nilla Wafers. They’re my dad’s favorite cookie and his birthday was Friday, so I’m making some for him. I hope they don’t suck.

I feel kind of stupid mentioning how tired I am today when my dad underwent a six-hour surgery yesterday and had parts of his body removed, but I am tired.

I just talked to my dad a little bit ago. He’s on morphine, which is only kind of helping with the pain. The doctors have to hear back from pathology before they can tell us more, though they think he will need at least a little bit of chemotherapy.

I was at the hospital for about 12 hours yesterday, most of that spent in the waiting room watching soap operas and Oprah and the news and one of those dancing competition shows and Inside Edition and the news, all of which shared the screen with scrolling updates of the patients. I’m not sure how I got it in my head that his operation would only take an hour or two. That was stupid of me.

I did get some quality people-watching in, though it was obviously much more introspective and somber than my normal variety. A number of families were there waiting for loved ones who were also having cancer surgeries and throughout my long day there I got to hear the nurse on duty talk with each of them.

“He has a great family that cares about him. That’s 90% of the battle right there. Just take one day at a time.”

“He has a great family that cares about him. That’s 90% of the battle right there. Just take one day at a time.”

“She has a great family that cares about her. That’s 90% of the battle right there. Just take one day at a time.”

I began to dread hearing those words, especially since it was possible that she would rattle off her Yogi Berra/AA-hybrid speech to me, and especially since the cloud of that speech always settled like a hard mist on a family in shock. Newly devastated. Terrified.

I didn’t get to see my dad after surgery. He was in the recovery room for several hours while the nurses tried to get his pain under control. The husband and the baby had come after school and the baby needed to go to bed. I was feeling really raw this morning and flinched whenever someone spoke to me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone at work, since it all seemed especially meaningless and stupid.

About a day after I found out about my dad’s cancer, one of the guys in my grad program found out that his mom has cancer. Her prognosis is very grim, though, so I guess in the sick arena of My Parent Has Cancer, I win this round. He and I have been checking in on each other, though. Sitting next to each other class. I keep wanting to ask him if he feels since the same disconnect that I do when our classmates joke with each other. It seems weird that this whole thing doesn’t make me feel completely vulnerable and childlike. I just want him to be okay.

Anyway. Onward. Thank you everyone for all of your kind words and encouragement yesterday. My dad has a lot of people rallying around him, but every positive thought helps.

This rough stuff that I mentioned the other day? My dad has a malignant, golf-ball-sized tumor on his small intestine. He’s in surgery right now. I’ve been hanging out at the hospital today. Prognosis is good so far.

Cancer can suck a dick.

Oh, dudes. Rough, ROUGH day yesterday. There was the mid-term and that really didn’t go very well, and then some other stuff happened that I don’t want to get into just yet, but suffice it to say that you may find me more morose than usual for awhile. I’m okay, but I really have to hike my big girl pants up and…well, honestly…I know that the strength needed is in me somewhere, but it’s hard to remember where I put it.

Sigh.

For right now, I’m trying to be all serene and accept the things I cannot change and looking forward to spending the weekend at home. I think the husband and the sister-in-law and I are going to a haunted house tonight.

Last night, I was seriously in need of some quality TV and we finally finished catching up on our Sunday night shows, namely True Blood and Mad Men. I am just completely ga-ga over Mad Men, but True Blood has been slow to grow on me. Whenever we watch it, I always enjoy it, but I never really look forward to it and am never DYING to know what’s going to happen. Plus, I honestly find Anna Paquin’s character to be really annoying. I think her dialect coach needs to work with her a bit more. Her vowels are too round or something. And they need to tone down the color of her hair. Poor thing. Her vowels and her hair dye make her the object of my ridicule. Truly, everyone should tremble in the face of my judgment.

ANYWAY, this week’s episode of True Blood really and truly blew me away. It was so great. Lots of really funny moments and just a fantastic rush of development in the story. Also, Lafayette, who up until now has been mostly a side character, got some more screen time and had the honor of delivering one of the best smackdowns I’ve ever seen. Behold: