The short version is that I slipped on the ice and hurt my arm. The long version is below. (Not the drawing of the thing looking in the mirror, but the text that follows.)
Dear diary,
Magic spectacles allow their wearer to see thru other people’s outer layers of clothing, so everyone appears in their underwear. Increase the power of your magic specs and everyone becomes naked. Yet another step and you expose their soul. Anyone who were able to look at my own soul would ask “Is it writhing in pleasure or in pain?” And not even an omniscient being would be able to answer.
I want to make a television show where the attraction is that you’re guaranteed a weep. What I mean is that I cry easily—beautiful poetry makes me cry, for instance—so why not put this skill to good use? Make some money. What is the ingredient for good TV? Drama. And what does drama consist of? Sex violence and weeping. Well I can’t give you sex or violence, but if you tune into my show, every Tuesday at 6:37 a.m., you’ll get your weeping fix, cuz I’ll talk to the camera for a moment until the teardrops flow. I also like to imagine what it would feel like to possess great power; it makes my eyes glisten.
I’m trying to ease into the main topic of this entry, by allowing my mind to roam wherever it wants. It’s like waiting for your dog to do its business, while helicopters are flying overhead. So I started with a remark about magic spectacles. Then I explained how something that the world of law enforcement might consider a weakness, such as hypersensitivity or a predilection towards emotional outbursts, can be turned into a strength, in the world of entertainment. But now I’m all out of wisdom, and it’s time to get to work; to begin the task that I’d rather avoid: I must give a play-by-play recounting my family’s Christmas. I want to tell the whole truth, while at the same time to dissuade readers from reading it; therefore I’ll purposely make this post insufferably long. And needlessly muddled. (Thanks for the ideas, C.I.A.)
We have the boringest Christmases ever. No family beats us for dullness. But still I must tell all the nothings that faded in & out…
I’m writing this on the 27th. Christmas was on the 25th. That’s two days ago. Here is what you need to know about the timing: I couldn’t write a post about the day until the day had concluded; that means that I had to wait until the 26th even to begin thinking of compiling all the data for my report (this insider info will come in handy if you yourself ever choose to become a blogger, dear diary): always wait until the day’s over, before you write about it. But I didn’t have time yesterday to jot an actual entry, because my 26th was wasted recounting the events of the 24th. You see how everything falls two days behind? That’s why I say: Never trust historians. They’re all basically snake-oil salesmen. Only trust corporations that own multiple news outlets. Also the F.B.I. and the N.S.A. – basically any department whose name is an acronym. They’re all inherently trustworthy.
Are we all on the same page now? Good. So on the day after Xmas I made a list of headings to remind myself what to write about, for the next time that I come into possession of a moment to blog. So what I’ll do here, in the report below, is copy that list of headings directly into the entry, and I’ll make them bold, so that when I offer my official affidavit underneath each one, the final report will appear to be somewhat organized, if you step back and view it from afar. Structured, prearranged, well thought-out. Almost as if I had a plan. Then I’ll print a hard copy of the finished entry and nail it to a tree:
Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us: for it is written, Cursed is every one that hangeth on a telephone pole. (Galatians 3:13)
XMAS NOTES
That’s the title of the text file that I populated with the bold phrases below. I thought I’d include it here, for fuck’s sake. Actually I called it “Notes toward a future diary entry.”
Leave house fast, service door still open
This reminder / note / heading should really be moved to the end, because it’s the last thing that happened on that day. (I speak of December 25, Christmas, the birth of Jeez, God’s only son, the first immortal to fake his death onstage.) We arrived home in our hatchback brimming with gifts; and when we opened up our garage door, it revealed a sight that shocked the living heaven out of my sweetheart: the service door had been left open. That is, the door that leads to the garage (not the car-sized one but the human-sized one) had been left open all day long, so that anyone who wandered past could enter freely and look at our bicycles and all the other stuff that’s in there, like old pieces of wood trim and gloves with glue on them. Also, now that we’ve installed our weatherstripping (see my “Report on a muffed repair” for details) to keep out the rodents, those rodents are laughing at us: who cares that the crevices around the front panels of the garage door are all sealed up; now pests can just waltz right in thru the open service door. And the reason for the phrase “leave house fast” in the heading above is that this door was left open by ME when I dashed out the apartment at top speed and raced toward our vehicle, the engine of which my sweetheart was impatiently revving, as it was more than three quarters past eleven o’clock, and we were supposed to be at my mother’s house by noon – forgetting to close the door I just leaped into the car and said “Gun it,” which means “Drive fast, now!!!!”
Pulling out of driveway, almost hit neighbor
So after receiving the command to “Gun it,” my sweetheart, who was piloting our hatchback (I’m now talking about the morning of December 25) shifted the car into reverse and did not look behind her to see if the driveway was clear. She was in a panic because, as I said above, we were late for the Christmas celebration, which was scheduled to begin at noon. It was about 11:58, so we only had two minutes to make it to my mother’s house, which is fifteen minutes away. So my sweetheart pulls backwards out of our driveway, and just at that moment our neighbors who live across the drive from us were pulling into their garage. (Their car is white, like a phantom in the snow; ours is silver like a whale.) So I yelled “STOP!” because I did not want to hit them. And my sweetheart said, “Well, which is it—shall I gun it or brake? These are contradictory commands you’re offering me.” Then, sternly, I gave her a lecture on the importance of checking all your mirrors and looking behind you before you back up a vehicle. Always get out and physically walk around your car counterclockwise, kicking each tire as you go. Check for debris like nails or stray infants.
We arrive; nothing is made of last night’s sublimity
Now if you read my previous entry, you’ll be on tenterhooks to know what happened next. Because I left off that post after recounting the mad rage that I flew into: I roared in righteous indignation at my mother and sister for breaking their promise to converse about the godawful church sermon, which they forced me to attend. So when I showed up at the house the next day for lunch, I expected that they’d at least give me guilty looks and say “We have unfinished business, no?” and then we’d all dive into a Grand Religious Argument (my dream come true). Basically we’d pick up right where we left off the evening before. But instead, they were lifeless. My sister mumbled “Hi,” and then went back to pawing her phone; and my mom greeted us briefly and then continued slicing vegetables for the stew.
To play a game or not (wine, Emerson)
It was past noon already, so, not having seen any cars beyond ours in the drive, I asked my sister Susan, “Where are Paul and Colleen?” (Paul is our sibling and Colleen is his wife, by the way.)
Susan said, “I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper?”
So I said, “What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground! now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened its mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand.” (Genesis 4:9-11)
So my sister said, “Fine, I’ll text them.”
So Paul answered back and said that he and Colleen didn’t know when luncheon was scheduled to happen: nobody ever specified a time. And Susan replied that we’re ready this very instant. So Paul said OK he’s going to take a shower and then come over; for he and Colleen had been lazing about all morning, leaning and loafing at their ease observing a spear of summer grass, because the foregoing days of holiday cheer had fatigued them.
So we, that is my mom sis helpmate & self, being hungry and yet having just received the news that it would be at least another hour till we could eat (for lunch cannot be served until the entire family is seated at the table and grace has been hissed), I say, we present attendees had to decide how to fill our spare time:
My sister said, “Shall we play a game?” And my sweetheart and my mother both said yes, but I said no. I was still pissed off about last night, when they made me go to church but then didn’t want to have a slam-bang argument afterwards. Why go to church if you’re not going to grouse about religion! The whole purpose of the sermon is to spark a mental fight.
So I let the three of them play their stupid game, while I opened my volume of Ralph Waldo Emerson which I had brought along, and began re-reading the “Divinity School Address” while drinking white wine. What improved my mood is when my mom and sister, who are both normally teetotalers, asked if they could have some wine too. “Sure!” I said. So it was barely afternoon and we all were drinking. This made up for last night’s letdown.
Late guests
I made a wager: I said to my mom, “It’s just after twelve right now; I’ll wager you a hondo that Paul & Colleen do not show up till 1:30.” And my mom’s eyes got big and she said, “No way! They’ll be here before THAT.” So I said, “Then let’s bet on it.” And she said, “Wait—what is a hondo?” And I said, “A fresh new hundred-dollar bill.” And she said, “OK, it’s on: Don’t write a check that your ass can’t cash.”
Then Paul & Colleen showed up, and the time was 1:17 on the dot. So I had to fork over a crisp hondo to my bio-mom. The graven image of the statesman/ inventor/ diplomat Benjamin Franklin appears on the obverse of the bill. As it is written:
Ever since Quiz Kids had begun airing . . . John, like many other children his age, wanted to be on it. The opportunity to audition for the show was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. . . . A local radio announcer asked the children questions for a half hour, which felt like a minute to John as he easily vanquished the competition. . . . In a ceremony afterward, he received a Quiz Kids gold key and was invited to a semifinal round the following Saturday. . . .
John enjoyed the week leading up to the final competition. . . . By the middle of the quiz, he was trailing one boy; but then he surged ahead, answering a crucial question by naming the face on the one-hundred-dollar bill. His mother Helen, who was trembling, leaned over to Mary Wellington and said, “But John has never seen a one-hundred-dollar bill, I’m sure.”—from The Songs We Know Best: John Ashbery’s Early Life by Karin Roffman
Searching for grandpa’s house while surveying railroad tracks
So we had planned to eat lunch at noon, but my brother and his wife were about an hour and a half late. But once they finally arrived, we did not all sit down at the table and begin eating, no: instead, we listened to Paul tell all about the surveying job that he performed over the weekend. Apparently the railroad company wants to add another set of tracks running parallel to the existing ones. Or something like that. This job led him up & down a long road and to & fro in the earth around the State of Wisconsin, which turned out to be the very road & earth where our paternal grandparents used to live. They had an old rickety house on a small farm. My brother said that he didn’t go inside the house, but he sought it out and looked at it from the outside. The last time any of us were there was in early childhood. Paul said it felt strange to see the place again; it looks pretty much the same as it always did, even tho it was sold to some other flunkies. And then, for a long time, we all gathered around my brother as he tried to use mom’s computer to locate the house on a satellite map. But no dice: “street view” was unavailable; we could only see its roof from a God’s-eye view. (The LORD is prohibited from entering our troposphere.) So we ended up eating lunch at around 2:30 p.m. This didn’t register as tragic, however, because, as I explained above, the interim from noon till then was spent sipping wine: even mother and sister guzzled their share, thus drastically increasing their likability.
Paul & Colleen are fun to talk to
Paul & Colleen are really fun to talk to. They have good personalities, which complement each other. At one point I asked the cliché question, “What do you say the meaning of life is?” and Colleen answered “Relationships.” I like that answer; I agree: relationships give life more meaning that anything else I can think of. Colleen also told us that her sister took two police training courses, even tho she doesn’t work as a cop; apparently their law-enforcement academy is available to anyone who is interested. And I asked Paul if he worries about the next economic crash, which is inevitable if we keep this current system of capitalism, and which shall throw our country into a Super Depression, the likes of which the world has never seen; and he said: “Yes, I worry about that.” And I said, “Do you worry about ever being homeless?” And he said, “Not really, but if I ever did lose my house, I’d hitchhike to someplace warm like San Francisco and go to sleep under a bridge; and then I’d lie on the beach and stare at the waves all day.”
And after Colleen told the frightening story that I’ll relay at the end of this entry, I asked Paul if he ever thinks he’ll purchase a firearm, and he said no, never: “I understand the odds are that someone who lives in my house would get injured by accident, if I owned a gun. Plus,” he said, “even if I found myself face-to-face with an armed invader, who shouted ‘Either you shoot me or I’ll shoot you!’ I’m not sure that I’d be able to pull the trigger – I don’t like the idea of taking another person’s life.” And I said that I wouldn’t ever own a firearm either. And I said I’m sure that I’ll end up homeless someday, and, when I do, I’ll stay right here on the streets of Eagan, because that way I shall quickly freeze to death. And my brother asked, “Why would you WANT to die, tho?” And I said, because it’s better than being homeless. And Paul said, “I’m not sure—maybe there is a lower Hell that you’d end up in, after dying, and you’d regret not staying alive for as long as possible to avoid that: ‘For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,’ as Hamlet says, ‘must give us pause’.” So I repeated what I’ve learned from Walt Whitman: There was never any more heaven or hell than there is right now. And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. And I also quoted this paragraph from the 3rd blue octavo notebook of Franz Kafka:
One of the first signs of the beginnings of understanding is the wish to die. This life appears unbearable, another unattainable. One is no longer ashamed of wanting to die; one asks to be moved from the old cell, which one hates, to a new one, which one will only in time come to hate. In this there is also a residue of belief that during the move the master will chance to come along the corridor, look at the prisoner and say: “This man is not to be locked up again. He is to come to me.”
And my brother smiled in appreciation of this, but then he reminded me of this other passage that comes later in the same notebook by Kafka:
The suicide is the prisoner who sees a gallows being erected in the prison yard, mistakenly thinks it is the one intended for him, breaks out of his cell in the night, and goes down and hangs himself.
Mom & dog
It turns out that my mom really likes Paul & Colleen’s pet dog. She takes frequent trips to their house when they’re not at home, for she knows their garage-door code, and she picks up their dog and takes the dog to the park. She speaks to the dog in English, in a cartoonish voice. She lets the dog lick the dinner plates.
Now, behold: a woman of Canaan came out and cried unto Jesus, saying, “Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.”
But Jesus answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, “Send her away; for she crieth after us.”
But Jesus answered and said, “I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”
Then came she and worshipped him, saying, “Lord, help me.”
But he answered and said, “It is not meet to take the children’s bread, and to cast it to dogs.”
And she said, “Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.”
Then Jesus answered and said unto her, “O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt.” And her daughter was made whole from that very hour.—from The Gospel of Matthew (15:22-28)
Dad’s in heaven
We stopped exchanging Christmas gifts, as a family, many years ago. But my mother refuses to quit the capitalist fiasco altogether; she always keeps one gift for each of her children under the tree. This year, my brother and I were given a copy each of the same religious paperback: it was a book about dealing with death. We had the same reaction, upon opening this gift: “Why did you give this to us; we’re not religious, neither are we grieving the death of our father: we mourned his loss before he died; for, when his mind softened, it was then that his soul truly perished. As it is written, ‘A person will be acquainted with the end and will not taste death.’ [Gospel of Thomas, §18] Also Jesus teaches that ‘People who say they will first die and then arise are mistaken. If they do not first receive resurrection while they are alive, once they have died they will receive nothing.’ [Gospel of Philip, §79] Moreover, even our great poet King David saith about his son, who was slain by the LORD: ‘While he was yet alive, I fasted and wept: for I said, “Who can tell whether GOD will be gracious to me, that the child may live?” But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.’ Also, how come you didn’t give Susan a copy of this book?—for she is practically your emotional doppelganger.”
And our mother answered that the book really meant a lot to her, because she is STILL grieving for our father, who died last year (the book is about how to cope with the loss of a loved one, and how to imagine that the loved one is enjoying a cozy afterlife); so she wanted us, her sons, to have a copy, as it was a great gloomy comfort to her, and misery loves company; but the reason she did not give a copy to Susan is that she assumed that Susan can find the book at a library. This explanation puzzled us: it sounded bizarre; but we let it pass.
Both Paul and I then reiterated our earlier explanation, about how we’re finished grieving—we mourned the loss of our father prior to his physical death, because he left the world officially when he lost his mind; altho his body persisted for years in a vegetative state, this inhuman existence is not true life to us, so when he finally expired it was more of a relief: nothing to grieve about. I then asked my mom if she really believes that dad is in heaven—literally, in a paradisal mansion—and she said yes indeed. Then I asked her if she believed that he can see her and communicate with her, and she said no, alas. So I said: Alright, let me get this straight; you think that dad is alive in the sky right now, but that there is a barrier preventing him from interacting with us earthlings; and my mom answered that is correct. And I asked her if she thinks that dad is dating anyone in heaven, and she said oh no. And then my sister Susan revealed that she herself has visited a professional clairvoyant, which is to say, someone who accepts money to tell you what they know about the unknowable, and this particular one told Susan that our father who art in heaven hath lived two past lives before his most recent life, and that his recent life got marred because he, daddy dearest, grew confused about which dimension he was supposed to be inhabiting, and this perplexity manifested itself as the brain disease that slew him, and henceforward he’ll not return to this dimension, but he’s presently hanging out in some halfway realm where he can see my sister and mutely aid her by sending her energy in the form of good vibes.
The meaning of life
I think I already explained above what Colleen & Paul said when I asked them about the meaning of life. Paul sided, as did I, with Colleen’s answer: relationships. And Susan said that it’s all about making your energy waves bigger and fuller.
Mental prowess vs. physical (humans and animals)
I offered up my idea that it’s best for humans to pursue mental development, since the mind is the realm where humankind has the advantage, compared to lions or monkeys or cheetahs, which all excel at physical prowess alone. Or not alone but mostly, compared to us. Because many creatures, straight from the womb, possess greater physical strength and agility than we humans can achieve even after a lifetime of training, it is best for us to keep physical fitness as a backburner goal, and make mental development our priority, and to focus on physical development only insofar as it can ward off the inevitable stroke or heart attack (etc.), because the mind is our true calling. My sister got annoyed at this teaching of mine, and she pushed back by saying “But I like the feeling of exerting my body to the limit.” And I said, “Is that why you chose to accept a salaried position as a salesperson at the front desk of a yoga startup, where they overwork you?” And this made her angry.
To move or not: country vs. suburbs: NY vs. MN
I forgot what we were discussing that led to this question, but it must have been school or jobs—Colleen asked me something about where I wish I were today, or what I would change about my situation to make it more closely resemble my ideal of life. I answered by saying “If my life were one of those ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ novels, where you read to a certain page and then there are choices given, for how the story should continue, and you the reader get to decide the outcome; like, if you want the protagonist to do X, then turn to page 44, and if you want Y then turn to 67, etc. – let’s say that eight out of nine choices would end in disaster for my book, so only one choice would allow for a happy ending; my hunch is that the crucial answer, which would make everything tolerable, would be: MOVE AWAY FROM THE SUBURBS OF MINNESOTA. Which is what I did not do. But I don’t regret it, because it caused me to dive into imaginative literature. But I wish that I could fire up my courage to leave here now, but it’s hard because I’m so old—40 as opposed to 17.” And Colleen then asked me where I would want to go. And I said I wish I lived in New York, in Manhattan, across the hall from Chelsea Clinton’s apartment. (I was kidding about this Chelsea remark—I only said her name because I remember hearing that she lives there; maybe I’m wrong about that. But I do truly plan someday to own all of Manhattan.) And then my brother Paul talked for a long time and brought up many examples from our childhood where our father complained about the suburbs, which he called “the city,” being inferior to life in the country – Paul admitted that this always chapped his hide: he didn’t understand the point in telling kids that the country was a more desirable realm, since the country was not a feasible option for us: we were trapped in suburbia.
What parents wanted from us; Mom: school
I said to my mom: “It’s obvious that you look at us, your children, and see nothing but failure. I’m curious what you wanted for us, when we were first born: What were your dreams, your hopes, your goals for our lives?” And my mom said, “I always wanted you kids to go to school.” And I said, “We did go to school.” And she said, “Not that: I mean college.” And I said, “How come? For the education? Do you consider us ill-educated, having attended only public school?” And she said, “No, but then you could have had much better jobs.” And I said, “Well then why did you not emphasize the importance of us continuing on to college after high school? You seem to have just let us flounder out into the workforce, without even attempting to guide us into higher education.” And she said, “Well dad was kind of against college—he always thought of school as a nuisance and a rip-off.” And then I turned to my sister Susan and said, “Well YOU went to college—did your education earn you a better job?” And my sister answered, “I could do what I’m doing now without attending college; but I don’t want to work in the field where I earned my degree, because then I’d have to do math all day.”
Mom runs out of alcohol
Normally I’m the only one of all my family members who cares to drink intoxicating beverages during the holiday, so I only brought enough wine for about one single Christian Trinity. But this time everyone, even my mom and aunt, deigned to partake. Therefore at 6:30 p.m. we ran out of alcohol. There is no funny story associated with this occurrence; it’s simply a fact. Saint John’s Jesus did not materialize in our kitchen to make our tap water Merlot. Despite this misfortune, however, our conversation flowed into the evening as well as it had been going throughout the afternoon. Thus the event brought to mind these excerpts from Emerson’s “Bacchus”:
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape[ . . . ]
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
WORMWOOD
Oh my god this six-part series by Errol Morris, called Wormwood (2017), is the best filmmaking I’ve seen in years. I watched it on a streaming network over Xmas break – it was released in mid-December. Morris is one of the handful of my favorite living directors, along with Paul Thomas Anderson, David Lynch, Werner Herzog, and Charlie Kaufman. Strong cinema rejuvenates my spirit.
Sister’s moody bitterness, antisocial, tired, nonstop phone use
This heading speaks for itself. I wish my sister were more generous with her attention during family get-togethers.
Mom, grief… still sad about dad, companion irreplaceable: it’s impossible!
I think I mostly touched on this above, when I talked of those paperback books that my mother gifted to me and my brother. We thought it was weird that she referred to our father as an “irreplaceable companion” – for he was a jerk when he was alive and never let our mom do anything that she really wanted to do. We tried to tell our mom that she could easily find another helpmate; we even quoted Lucretius:
Your love’s not around, for a change? But still her image
Is, and her sweet name echoes in your ears.
But we ought to flee these shadows and scare off
The food of love, and turn our thoughts to another—
Shooting the juice into any available body,
Not holding it in all for a single lover,
Saving up for ourselves sure pain and sorrow.
If you feed the sore it’ll put down roots and fester
And blister over and drive you mad with trouble—
Better write off the old wounds with new business,
Stroll after a street-strolling trollop and cure yourself,
Shift your thoughts to another while you still can!—from De rerum natura (A.M. Esolen translation)
But mom said “NO! you guys don’t understand: dad and I both came from those small towns in Wisconsin, and nobody will ever be able to relate to me the way that Doug did.” ...But when we asked her to relay some of her fondest memories of him, every single one was from the time when he had entered his second childhood—when the memory disease had rendered him more like a speechless animal than a robustly callous & selfish ranting right-winger.
What time we all usually go to bed
One by one, we all revealed what time we normally end up hitting the hey. Paul said 10 p.m. but he usually falls asleep on the couch sometime before then. Colleen said the same. My mom said 10 too. Susan said 8 because she must get up at 4:30 to go to work. And I explained that I’d stay up till 2 a.m. when I was working on my books; for, during that phase of my life, I ignored all news and entertainment, so I knew nothing about what was going on in the world – all I’d do is write all day and then maybe watch an old “noir” film before bed (a B-movie from around the 1940s). But now my bedtime is 9 p.m. as well – like a loser, so early – because I’m depressed about the rotten state of our empire. After all those years of working on my huge writing project, I emerged from the glowing beakers of my mad scientist’s lab and blinked my eyes at a dystopian countryside: all our U.S. cities are failing, the economy’s drained and the world is burning in turmoil. So I go to bed early, hoping I’ll wake and find it all was just a dream.
Colleen’s helicopter manhunt
At the end of the night, Colleen told a story about what happened to her earlier in the week. Paul was away on his railroad surveying job at our grandparents’ old stomping ground, so Colleen was home alone with the dog. It was dark. If it had been storming, one could say that it was a dark and stormy night. Colleen let the dog out into the yard to do its business. The dog faced the neighbors’ house and growled. Then, as Colleen was outside trying to coax the growling dog back toward her own house, a helicopter appeared overhead. Then a spotlight shined on the ground, illuminating her and the dog. The light was coming from the chopper. Colleen managed eventually to get her dog back into her house. Once inside, she kept hearing the buzz of helicopters over the roof, and a searchlight kept routinely sweeping past her drapes and beaming thru the bathroom’s ceiling window. She was scared, but she tried to remain calm. She got in bed and attempted to sleep; but the dog, who normally sleeps at her side, would not budge from the foot of the bed—it stood rigid and would not stop growling. So Colleen turned on her computer and searched the local police’s website: she entered the name of her neighborhood; and, among the results, she saw there were other people who had asked the question directly to the law enforcement media site: “What’s up with all the helicopters in our area?” It turns out that there was an official statement released by the police: it said that there had been an attempted burglary in one of the houses nearby, and the cops have quarantined off the entire area and are now searching diligently for the suspect, who is armed & dangerous, and who is thought to be somewhere in or around Soothing Park (which is directly behind Colleen’s house). And, perhaps worst of all, this story does not have an ending: it just hangs in the air as a terrifying occurrence; for, after a few hours of being unable to sleep, Colleen checked back on the police’s media site, and the official statement had changed: it now said that the police have called off the search, but they did not find the suspect.
No comments:
Post a Comment