We live in a fictionalized society. If one is connected via any medium one is subjected to others' narratives, character development, plot points, denouement (especially denouement) and prologues and epilogues galore.
Of course I'm speaking about the most recent atrocity in Newtown, Connecticut. I tend to agree with Laura.
I feel like I'm living in a Margaret Atwood or Cormac McCarthy novel ( I just started The Road, who knew). We're this close to operating as characters written by someone else.
I know that doesn't make much sense, sense, but it's as if we've all gone over the edge into HAVING TO LISTEN, REACT, FEEL AND BE what the appropriate template is; that being: shocked, awed, empathetic, frightened about more scary shit taking place and what are we going to do about these gun-wielding crazy folks.
I sat there on the patio crying, thinking that I would DIE if my child had been in that charnel house. I would DIE if that were to happen now, when they're adults.
And then I was repulsed by every single last network foisting 24/7 coverage of it. And I was repulsed at myself for listening to it while I was sitting on the patio. And then I was repulsed at myself for deciding to post about it.
But, that's why we have football and basketball and new smartphones to jack with.
We are immersed in immediate news, which means we're immersed in the immediacy of human depravity, which means we need to find some way of making these situations real, mentally-get-overable if we're not directly involved, and a way to not continue the constant neverending drums of trying to second guess it all.
Some things cannot be fixed. Some things are so awful that the only good thing that comes out of them is that the perpetrator is out of our society. It has nothing to do with prevention. There are too many thousands of mental machinations, weaponry abilities and combinations thereof that will defeat any random generator computer, even, from preventing them from going wrong.
Add into the mix our lovely leaders and the soup of stirring a stick into an open stewy wound for weeks and weeks and weeks to evidence their SADNESS, and we have us a fine, continuing still-to-be-published novel of descent into hell.