It is not writer's block. That sort of thing assumes a writer has something to say, to pass along. The metaphor implies obstruction of an otherwise glorious flow of verbiage; it implies a log jam interrupting the normal flow of a sure and powerful river.
What is it called when the river itself is empty, dried up? Writer's drought? What if there is nothing to block, no flow to impede? Or what if the writer's well is filled with dust? What do we call that?
I have nothing to say. At least, I feel like I have nothing to say. The Virginia Tech shootings were my last real reason to craft anything resembling an essay, a poem, something literary. How sad that I should only find a muse in grief. But is that even true? Did I find inspiration in sorrow and tragedy?
Perhaps. But today I've found something else in my gnawing gut; I've a belly full of disgust. I am sickened by the transitions. We humans, or most of us, seem to move from issue to issue, tragedy to tragedy, searching for smooth segues from bit to bit, from pod to pod (as news/documentary items are called on "Current TV"): We want something. We move from pod to pod like rats from switch to switch; we will electrocute ourselves for a new bit of bitter cheese. And I recoil at the thought that we are DONE with Virginia Tech, or Don Imus, or 9/11. That we have "moved on," emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. That we are hunting for the next big distraction, the next Beltway sniper or car chase or racial slur or outrageous political misstep. We look through blogs and news feeds; we grope about, snickering as we dismiss x and y and z; we take hold of A, and we write or film or opine in harried insistence that we have to say something, we have to move the debate, to push the national conversation. We must have A, we must shape it just so; and we shape it so we can have, as quickly as possible, B.
I walk through bookstores, I scroll through blogs and search engines; I sift through news pages and flip through YouTube clips or newsreels and I see nothing but words: words and words and words. We jam words into every void, every crevice. Windbag thinkers tell us that bad speech is fought with more speech; advertisers jam words into scoreboards and dashboards and every readable surface on the planet. We have so many words offered as answers we cannot see that words serve as cataracts to our eyes: we cannot make out the form of the questions that we ever even asked. There is just a dull, hazy light, double, triple vision: two moons in the night sky in our waning, aging light.
What is the solution to Don Imus' alleged racial slurs? Words. What is the solution to Seung-Hui Cho? More words. What to do with Iraq, Harry Reid, Rosie O'Donnell, Bill O'Reilly, Randi Rhodes, poverty? Words and more words. What is the solution to the estrangement of man's existence from his essence? Words. Declarative statements. No question marks.
My word.
Immediately after 9/11, TV networks went days and days without running any advertisements. Why? What purpose did that serve? Did it suggest that to hawk one's wares in sight of thousands of dead people was too tawdry, too decadent and heartless and rapacious and mercenary? How many dead people DOES it take for the networks to stop advertising, two, three? Why 5,000, 4,000, 3,000? What is the magic number necessary for a nation to stop and grieve properly? Who sets that number? What number tells us we can move on?
And how long must I wait before I can write about anything other than all that has preceded this moment? How long, really, do I have to forget the martyrdom of Peter or the destruction of Jerusalem or the Black Plague or the desolation of the American Indian or the savagery of the fur trade or the decapitation of infidels or the garroting of babies or gunshots in a classroom, before I can call myself au courant?
Yesterday I wept at a funeral for one of my dearest friends. Afterwards, as I approached my friend's now-empty house where a luncheon was to be held in her honor, I stopped to talk to Barbara, another friend who had moments earlier eulogized (so boldly, so elegantly) our dead friend. In the midst of our gentle, teary conversation, I said, "Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy." I shocked myself with the sentence, having no idea where it came from, or why exactly I had said it. But in a moment's pause both Barbara and I knew that it fit the moment perfectly; it was the very summation of her wonderful eulogy and what we were searching for on the shoulder of Lookout Hill Road.
Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy.
It is the sort of sentence one might find in Bartlett's, if only its author were noteworthy. It is also made up of mere words. It is more words, words that blind like tears, the cataracts of grief flowing over cheeks, pouring from the dulled eyes that search for a friend who is now a question mark.
Sometimes the only word we want to hear is not a word at all.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Showing posts with label Virginia Tech. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Virginia Tech. Show all posts
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Cho Seung-Hui: Who Are We?
[Tonight (4.18.07) I amend this post with this preface because I see that a lot of people are seeking, searching, looking. Some of you, like me, may even be groping: How do I make sense of a ruthless massacre like the one that happened at the seemingly peaceful, bucolic Virginia Tech? I have spent much of my time since Monday morning wondering - with much fear - whether it is possible that there is no answer to the question. What if there is no reason at all?
I wonder, though, if we can permit ourselves to accept that the reason might be utterly simple, and singular in scope: Cho Seung-Hui created this all entirely on his own. This tragedy is not God's fault, nor is it the fault of college administrators, overly-cautious psychologists, timid law enforcement officials, or obtuse neighbors. This is something crafted by one person: A man willed something, and it came to pass.
Since I cannot promise any sort of answer here, I can at least direct you toward my own struggles with the problem of evil (see here). Though my struggle is admittedly one fought on Christian terms, I nonetheless believe my struggle can serve as a guide to those who find themselves doing battle in terms that are not one bit religious. My approach is actually more philosophical than theological, though both disciplines, I believe, have more to say about evil than any natural or social science which by definition precludes even the notion of evil.
But whatever you do or wherever you go, I bid you peace, comfort, and solace as you seek to find meaning in a world that shouts meaninglessness at us everyday. My belief is that what the world so often shouts is not at all true.]
You might have come here for comfort, for some understanding or trenchant analysis. I am sorry to disappoint. There is nothing this heart can really give.
_______________
The media, like the rest of us, chafe at the bit of real time. We want answers to simple questions, and we want them right now. We want to know why vision is always 20/20 when viewed in the Slow-motion Afterwards; and we want to know everything. We crave omniscience so we can explain; we crave explanations so we can console ourselves with pithy little phrases, like "isolated incident," "mental illness," "random violence," and "it can't happen to me."
While waiting for hard facts detailing the shootings at Virginia Tech, we are also tempted to ramble on about causes and solutions: We do not know the disease, but perhaps we can all chatter on about prevention. We do not know the problems, but let us posit some answers. This is our wont in the media, and in our consumption of media. And it is all so very entertaining: Let there be no dead air between breathy, vapid sound-bites for fear of losing viewers and listeners.
Of course, the big speculation -- THE BIG PROBLEM -- that filled much of the TV dead air between facts and figures delivered all too-slowly in the Virginia Tech shootings, is that the campus police and administrators are somehow to blame: The school should have been in lock-down immediately. You know what is being said -- we need a terrorist threat-level alarm system every time something bad happens (anywhere). That I have heard nary a word how a lock-down would not have helped is hardly surprising: we need answers, and we need to blame something.
(Think of the preposterousness of it all: VT should have locked down a 2600-acre campus -- over 4 square miles -- wherein 26,000 to 28,0o0 people work, live, study and stroll. Imagine the size of such an enterprise: taking a 2 mile by 2 mile urbanized area and containing it all within a protective blanket. Keene, NH, considered a city by New England standards, has 25,000 residents. Alas, we are hearing commentary suggesting that when Keene has a shooting within its borders, the entire city should be locked down. Instantly.
And then think of a methodical murderer with a plan: He will hide inside a building, wait for lock-down to be announced [he reads it on his own cellphone, perhaps]; he waits a few minutes to ensure that classes are underway and pedestrian flow into the building is low; he chains closed various exits; and then he begins his terror. Such a scenario gives one an immediate sense of how a lock-down actually creates a false sense of security; and how such false security lowers one's suspicions. Besides, the lock-down merely means that the shooter is now locked down with everyone else. He IS a VT student after all, and would be whisked toward protection like any other student.)
But we are all about finding something, ANY thing, to blame. The shooter himself apparently blamed "rich kids" and "debauchery" for his rage (and anyone paying attention to the zeitgeist over the last 30 years knows that rich kids are stereotyped by every sector of American culture). Some will blame video games. Some will blame guns. Others will blame race, or the isolation that too often comes of it.
The fact is that we all might be to blame. I replied to an email last night regarding the VT shootings that Americans -- and westerners in general -- no longer love their neighbors. Alas, we don't even know them. I will not enlarge upon that at this moment, but I will note this: An MSNBC reporter TODAY stood outside the Centreville, VA home of the 23-year-old shooter, and said that the neighborhood was clearly "middle class" (in contrast to a rich kid's neighborhood) and that, though neighbors had seen the shooter's family, none of the neighbors seemed to know a thing about the family (which had been living there for at least a dozen years). In fact, the reporter -- surprised, at least in tone -- shared that none of the neighbors seemed to know any of the others at all. And this in a middle class neighborhood where the very walls of each home were shared one house to the other.
In other words, the VT murderer was raised (mostly) in a tight-knit community of complete strangers.
Sounds like America. Sounds like the world.
There must be a simple explanation.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
I wonder, though, if we can permit ourselves to accept that the reason might be utterly simple, and singular in scope: Cho Seung-Hui created this all entirely on his own. This tragedy is not God's fault, nor is it the fault of college administrators, overly-cautious psychologists, timid law enforcement officials, or obtuse neighbors. This is something crafted by one person: A man willed something, and it came to pass.
Since I cannot promise any sort of answer here, I can at least direct you toward my own struggles with the problem of evil (see here). Though my struggle is admittedly one fought on Christian terms, I nonetheless believe my struggle can serve as a guide to those who find themselves doing battle in terms that are not one bit religious. My approach is actually more philosophical than theological, though both disciplines, I believe, have more to say about evil than any natural or social science which by definition precludes even the notion of evil.
But whatever you do or wherever you go, I bid you peace, comfort, and solace as you seek to find meaning in a world that shouts meaninglessness at us everyday. My belief is that what the world so often shouts is not at all true.]
You might have come here for comfort, for some understanding or trenchant analysis. I am sorry to disappoint. There is nothing this heart can really give.
_______________
The media, like the rest of us, chafe at the bit of real time. We want answers to simple questions, and we want them right now. We want to know why vision is always 20/20 when viewed in the Slow-motion Afterwards; and we want to know everything. We crave omniscience so we can explain; we crave explanations so we can console ourselves with pithy little phrases, like "isolated incident," "mental illness," "random violence," and "it can't happen to me."
While waiting for hard facts detailing the shootings at Virginia Tech, we are also tempted to ramble on about causes and solutions: We do not know the disease, but perhaps we can all chatter on about prevention. We do not know the problems, but let us posit some answers. This is our wont in the media, and in our consumption of media. And it is all so very entertaining: Let there be no dead air between breathy, vapid sound-bites for fear of losing viewers and listeners.
Of course, the big speculation -- THE BIG PROBLEM -- that filled much of the TV dead air between facts and figures delivered all too-slowly in the Virginia Tech shootings, is that the campus police and administrators are somehow to blame: The school should have been in lock-down immediately. You know what is being said -- we need a terrorist threat-level alarm system every time something bad happens (anywhere). That I have heard nary a word how a lock-down would not have helped is hardly surprising: we need answers, and we need to blame something.
(Think of the preposterousness of it all: VT should have locked down a 2600-acre campus -- over 4 square miles -- wherein 26,000 to 28,0o0 people work, live, study and stroll. Imagine the size of such an enterprise: taking a 2 mile by 2 mile urbanized area and containing it all within a protective blanket. Keene, NH, considered a city by New England standards, has 25,000 residents. Alas, we are hearing commentary suggesting that when Keene has a shooting within its borders, the entire city should be locked down. Instantly.
And then think of a methodical murderer with a plan: He will hide inside a building, wait for lock-down to be announced [he reads it on his own cellphone, perhaps]; he waits a few minutes to ensure that classes are underway and pedestrian flow into the building is low; he chains closed various exits; and then he begins his terror. Such a scenario gives one an immediate sense of how a lock-down actually creates a false sense of security; and how such false security lowers one's suspicions. Besides, the lock-down merely means that the shooter is now locked down with everyone else. He IS a VT student after all, and would be whisked toward protection like any other student.)
But we are all about finding something, ANY thing, to blame. The shooter himself apparently blamed "rich kids" and "debauchery" for his rage (and anyone paying attention to the zeitgeist over the last 30 years knows that rich kids are stereotyped by every sector of American culture). Some will blame video games. Some will blame guns. Others will blame race, or the isolation that too often comes of it.
The fact is that we all might be to blame. I replied to an email last night regarding the VT shootings that Americans -- and westerners in general -- no longer love their neighbors. Alas, we don't even know them. I will not enlarge upon that at this moment, but I will note this: An MSNBC reporter TODAY stood outside the Centreville, VA home of the 23-year-old shooter, and said that the neighborhood was clearly "middle class" (in contrast to a rich kid's neighborhood) and that, though neighbors had seen the shooter's family, none of the neighbors seemed to know a thing about the family (which had been living there for at least a dozen years). In fact, the reporter -- surprised, at least in tone -- shared that none of the neighbors seemed to know any of the others at all. And this in a middle class neighborhood where the very walls of each home were shared one house to the other.
In other words, the VT murderer was raised (mostly) in a tight-knit community of complete strangers.
Sounds like America. Sounds like the world.
There must be a simple explanation.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
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