itinerant curbing

I enjoy documentary photography–both the concept and the reality. I love it that there are people out there documenting their lives and the lives of others. It pleases me no end to know there are photographers taking photos of their friends and family members, who take pictures of the meals they eat, who document where they live and work and play, who shoot portraits of the people they meet, who find their mundane lives so interesting they feel a need to share them with others.

I enjoy documentary photograph–but I have almost no interest in doing it myself. Almost none.

But sometimes I get attracted to an object–a bright red snow disk, a gas mask, traffic signals–and I document that object. Last fall I happened to see this chunk of asphalt curbing around which some red PVC wire had been tied, making a sort of carrying device. The curbing had been carried about twenty yards from its original position. I visited the curbing every few weeks and photographed it. Then one day it was in a different spot; it had been moved maybe seven or eight yards away…at which point the PVC wire had apparently snapped.

And it’s still there. I don’t understand this at all. I don’t understand why somebody wanted to move the bit of curbing to begin with, I don’t understand why it was set down where I originally found it, and I don’t understand why anybody moved it further. I just don’t understand it.

And that pleases me.

terrorism works

I’m a criminologist by training, though I haven’t been actively studying it for the last four or five years. Like most folks, my initial response to the horrific events in Oslo and Utroya was almost purely emotional–shock, horror, some anger, a free-floating sense of unreality.

But good training always asserts itself and after a while I found myself paying attention to how individual people and the news media were responding to the event. Almost immediately people, including professional journalists, were speculating the attacks were the work of Islamic terrorists. They’d phrase it carefully, with comments like “This has the trademark signatures of Islamic terrorism” or “It could be some other group responsible, but the coordinated nature of the attacks suggests the perpetrator studied the tactics of Islamic terrorism.” The implication was always there–even if the bombing and shooting weren’t being done by Islamic terrorists, Islamic terrorists were still indirectly responsible for them.

I looked at the opinions voiced on FreeRepublic.com, one of the most vitriolic right wing conservative websites and found comments like these:

“Western Europe has but two choices: 1. Boxcars, or…2. Burqhas.”

“We’re fighting this war on terrorism the wrong way. Instead of us just reacting to the threats and spending trillions of dollars in the process, what we need to do is that every time there’s a terrorist bombing we should select a Muslim city, at random, and bomb a few square blocks…”

“May the soulless Muslim terrorists who did this, and who attacked innocent young people at a camp on an island, be caught promptly and dealt with swiftly, preferably without a trial”

When it became clear the perpetrator was a white Christian right-wing extremist, the people at FreeRepublic shifted their response:

“This would be a dream come true for MSM and the Democrat buddies.”

“I bet my bottom dollar, either the guy was schizophrenic/mentally ill or is linked to the Muzziggers.”

“I more than suspect it is a plant. Conservatives do not slaughter innocent children for any purpose. But a lib, a socialist deviant, would slaughter children while proclaiming to be a conservative in order to bring down conservatism.”

When they thought the perpetrator might be a Muslim, he was representative of the entire religion…but when he turned out to be a white Christian conservative, he became either a liberal stooge or a lone nut case. But surely, it would be irresponsible for people to think he could be representative of all white Christian conservatives.

What’s alarming is that what was being said on FreeRepublic.com was more extreme than what was said by mainstream news media, but they were making the same basic point: it’s either Muslims or somebody inspired by Muslims or a lone nut.

Here’s a true thing: the European Union’s “Terrorism Situation and Trend Report, 2010” reported that in 2009 there were “294 failed, foiled, or successfully executed attacks” in six European countries. How many of those 294 were perpetrated by Muslims or Islamic terrorists?

One.

This isn’t to suggest that Islamic terrorists groups aren’t a threat–of course they are. But it’s important to keep that threat in perspective. Islamic extremists didn’t invent terrorism; it doesn’t belong to them. Those alleged ‘trademark signatures’ aren’t even trademark signatures. Coordinated attacks have been used by terrorists (and, for that matter, by military organizations) for centuries. The vehicle bomb? An anarchist opposed to capitalism packed explosives in a horse-drawn cart and and set it off on Wall Street in 1920–killed nearly 40, wounded around 400. And the first known motor vehicle bomb was detonated in 1927 by a white conservative Christian man in Bath, Michigan angry about taxes.

And guess what. It was a coordinated attack–the alleged signature of Islamic terrorists. Andrew Kehoe set off a firebomb at his house. While the authorities were fighting that fire, he detonated a bomb he’d planted in the local elementary school. When the police and firefighters and parents rushed to the school, Kehoe drove up in his car–which was packed with nails, metal tools, bits of steel machinery, anything that could act as shrapnel–and detonated the explosive. The butcher’s bill was 45 dead (38 of whom were children) and several dozen wounded. What was it somebody said on FreeRepublic.com? Conservatives do not slaughter innocent children for any purpose?

Terrorism doesn’t belong to any one group. It’s a tactic that’s been embraced by extremists of all stripes. And as shown by the responses in FreeRepublic.com, it’s a tactic that works. Those people have been thoroughly terrorized.

untethered

I’ve been distracted all day by the horrific events that took place in Norway yesterday. All those young people gunned down–it exceeds my capacity to comprehend, and it leaves me feeling rather lost.

Much of my professional life was spent dealing with criminal and deviant behavior–some of which was directed at young people. A delusional woman who killed her child by putting her in an oven; a man crazy on drugs who laid his young son across his lap and stabbed him repeatedly–then turned him over and did it again; a serial pedophile who bought, sold and traded young boys and girls, some of whom I believe he murdered.

It’s not possible for me to forgive crimes like that, but on some intellectual level I could generally comprehend the reasoning behind the behavior And there was always some sort of reasoning, even if it was skewed crazily out of proportion. I didn’t often comprehend how a person could act on that reasoning–but knowing the reasoning existed allowed me to deal with the person.

But what happened in Norway–the methodical killing of young people that went on and on for close to ninety minutes–who can understand the reasoning behind that? Maybe I’m just unwilling to make the attempt, I don’t know. Either way, it’s left me feeling untethered in the universe.

he quipped

Some words annoy me. Quip is one of them. Not the noun–I have no real problem with the noun. It’s the verb that offends me, and it offends me especially when used as a dialog tag. “Blah blah blah,” he quipped.

Dude, if you have to tell me it’s a quip, it’s not a very good quip. If you have to point out the quippy nature of the line, then you’ve failed in your job as a writer. If the context isn’t enough to reveal the level of quipitude–if you have to rely on a 16th century verb usage to rescue you–then just delete the fucking line and start over.

happy accident

I’m a firm believer in the happy accident. But I don’t trust it.

Sometimes things just come together. The elements just coalesce spontaneously and organically and something momentarily wonderful happens. It doesn’t even matter what those elements are–the ingredients of a seafood gumbo, the arrangement of a flock of birds in flight, a long lightly floating pass from Megan Rapinoe to Abby Wambach in the 122nd minute of a World Cup match. Doesn’t matter what it is; what matters is that it’s witnessed.

In this case, the witness was a machine. My camera.

A few days ago I was at the library and removed the camera from my bag in order to reach something else. I noticed the lens cap had come off, so I set the camera on the table so I could search the bottom of the bag for the cap. When I set it on the table I accidentally hit the shutter release. I didn’t even know the camera was turned on.

I heard the snap of the shutter, but didn’t even bother to chimp the photo. I just located the lens cap, replaced it on the lens, turned the camera off, and put it back in the bag. It wasn’t until later, after shooting some other photos, that I saw this photograph.

It’s not a great photo, although I think it’s an interesting one. I had to straighten it out somewhat in Photoshop (the horizon line was about ten degrees off-true. I didn’t even notice the man in the yellow shirt reading until I decided to process the photo. This was a happy accident piled on a happy accident.

this writing gig

I’m about 85% finished with a short story and, as usual, I’m not particularly pleased with it. But that’s how it works for me–I get about 85% finished and I start to think it’s an absolutely stupid story. It’s not just stupid, I tell myself, it’s dull. But usually I bang on through and finish the damned thing, and in the end the story does sometimes turn out to be stupid and dull, but most often not. But I’m aware that my judgment at this point in the process is suspect, to say the least.

What’s worrying, though, is that this happened with another short story about three weeks ago. I was about 85% finished, didn’t like it, but instead of banging through I decided to set it aside and start a new one. Now it’s happening again–I’m at that 85% mark, and I’ve got a half-formed idea for a new story that interests me immensely.

So what to do? Put this one aside and write the one I’m interested in? If I do, what happens when I’m 85% finished with the new new story and I get the urge to put it aside? Or do I finish the impossibly stupid and dull story I don’t want to work on (which is probably not nearly as stupid or dull as I think it is)?

This writing gig is hard.

impertinent prayers

So I was sitting on a bench in the shade outside the public library, and this woman came up to me and said this: “Can I pray for you?”

I was a wee bit taken aback by the sheer impertinence of the request. What made her single me out as the recipient of her prayers (there were other people sitting nearby)? What made her think her prayers would be particularly helpful? What made her believe it was perfectly appropriate to interrupt my reading so she could address a request to her Invisible Friend in the Clouds to look over me? How would she have felt if I’d interrupted her prayers in order to recite a passage from the novel I was reading?

But at the same time I was sort of touched that she wanted to help a stranger, even if the stranger didn’t ask for, want, or need her help. While I found her arrogance and impertinence annoying and offensive, I was sort of moved by her sincerity.

So I said “Sure, go ahead on, pray away.” And she did. Then smiled and went away, leaving me sitting there feeling both touched and annoyed, and more than a little creeped out.

summer reading

I’ve spent the early part of the summer re-reading the old adventure novels I loved as a boy. I began with Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini–a novel set during the French Revolution, with one of the best opening lines ever written: He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad. Sabatini loved that line so much he used it as his epitaph. He wrote a sequel, Scaramouche the Kingmaker, a decade later–though whether he wrote it because he liked the character or because he needed the cash, I’ve no idea. In any event, it’s a novel that probably should have remained unwritten.

I also read The Prisoner of Zenda, written by Anthony Hope in 1894. It’s an impossibly romantic story, and I mean ‘romantic’ in the old sense of the term. The novel has the most wonderful sociopathic villain, with a perfectly villainous name: Rupert of Hentzau. It also inspired an entire (and, sadly, cheesy) sub-genre of adventure novels in which dissolute or unfortunate members of royalty are temporarily replaced by doppelgangers who manage to save the kingdom. As with Sabatini, Hope wrote a sequel–this one entitled Rupert of Hentzau, featuring that same charming sociopath. The sequel was less successful, though not as painfully bad as Sabatini’s.

Now I’m reading The Four Feathers, the 1902 novel by A.E.W. Mason about a young man raised in a British military family who is labeled a coward (the accusation of cowardice is accompanied by a white feather). It takes place in the Sudan during the early 1880s, when the forces of the Mahdi took on the British Empire–one of the first modern clashes between imperialism and religious fanaticism. The protagonist proves his courage by secretly traveling to the Sudan (in disguise, of course–romantic fictional heroes always travel in disguise) and over the course of six years, rescuing his accusers and returning to each of them the white feather. Happily, Mason didn’t write a sequel.