As I write this chaos continues to assail Boston, even in the wake of the tragic bombing of the Marathon this past Monday. Perhaps the added chaos this evening is related to that bombing. The FBI seemed to be hot on the trail of a couple of suspects today, so it would not be surprising to find out that a shooting at MIT and further police action in Watertown was related to the terror bombing of Monday’s race. Ever since moving to Spain in 1979 I have had to deal with terrorists, bombs, shootings, and all the associated law enforcement that go with the human tragedy of senseless violence in the name of some irrational nationalism or imaginary political ideology. In the end, all you have is dead innocent victims that had nothing to do with any of that fruitless political struggle. Terrorism destroys both the lives of the innocents and their families and the terrorists themselves, who turn themselves into common criminals because they see their only answer to life’s difficult questions to be violence. Since they cannot attack an entire country, they attack the innocent, a slaughter of lambs, if you will, but what they fail to recognize is that no government worth its salt will ever give into terrorists. The police just work all that much harder to destroy the terrorists, which really only means that the prisons and jails fill up with terrorists, the political objectives become obscure or forgotten, and new terrorists are born to take the place of those who are dead or in jail. Terrorism is a snake eating its own tail, self-perpetuating, blind, filled with faulty thinking and irrational objectives, and it turns normal people into common criminals–murderers, thieves, liars. In the end, no one is particularly happy with the results. The terrorists are dead or in jail, their objectives unfulfilled; the victims are dead or grieving for with the loss of a loved one; law enforcement is frustrated because they could never prevent any of it–they only get clean-up duties. The big problem with bombers is that they never really understand that no matter how much they hurt the people they hate, those people will, eventually, bounce back. Those who have died are beyond reach of pain and their struggles are over. Those who have lost limbs will learn to walk again, readjust their lives, have families, love, grow old, and will eventually die of old age in God’s good time. And all those idealistic political agendas will have served nothing, nothing will change, nothing will be achieved but the destruction of some lives. The funny/ironic part about terrorists is that they are just normal people until they let themselves be lead astray by faulty irrational thinking and a belief that political goals can be achieved through violence. Most political extremism is illusory, foolish, irrational, vacuous, superficial, and/or unrealistic. Bombs will never change the basic objectives of a free market capitalism. If fact, I would hazard to say that terrorism does the exact opposite of what it proposes to do and reinforces democratic objectives and strengthens governments and law enforcement. In the meantime, however, our hearts are broken, our tears burn, the lump in our throats does not go away, and we stare at the ground in shame and horror, unable to understand why our world is so imperfect and broken.
Category Archives: pain
On Boston
As I write this chaos continues to assail Boston, even in the wake of the tragic bombing of the Marathon this past Monday. Perhaps the added chaos this evening is related to that bombing. The FBI seemed to be hot on the trail of a couple of suspects today, so it would not be surprising to find out that a shooting at MIT and further police action in Watertown was related to the terror bombing of Monday’s race. Ever since moving to Spain in 1979 I have had to deal with terrorists, bombs, shootings, and all the associated law enforcement that go with the human tragedy of senseless violence in the name of some irrational nationalism or imaginary political ideology. In the end, all you have is dead innocent victims that had nothing to do with any of that fruitless political struggle. Terrorism destroys both the lives of the innocents and their families and the terrorists themselves, who turn themselves into common criminals because they see their only answer to life’s difficult questions to be violence. Since they cannot attack an entire country, they attack the innocent, a slaughter of lambs, if you will, but what they fail to recognize is that no government worth its salt will ever give into terrorists. The police just work all that much harder to destroy the terrorists, which really only means that the prisons and jails fill up with terrorists, the political objectives become obscure or forgotten, and new terrorists are born to take the place of those who are dead or in jail. Terrorism is a snake eating its own tail, self-perpetuating, blind, filled with faulty thinking and irrational objectives, and it turns normal people into common criminals–murderers, thieves, liars. In the end, no one is particularly happy with the results. The terrorists are dead or in jail, their objectives unfulfilled; the victims are dead or grieving for with the loss of a loved one; law enforcement is frustrated because they could never prevent any of it–they only get clean-up duties. The big problem with bombers is that they never really understand that no matter how much they hurt the people they hate, those people will, eventually, bounce back. Those who have died are beyond reach of pain and their struggles are over. Those who have lost limbs will learn to walk again, readjust their lives, have families, love, grow old, and will eventually die of old age in God’s good time. And all those idealistic political agendas will have served nothing, nothing will change, nothing will be achieved but the destruction of some lives. The funny/ironic part about terrorists is that they are just normal people until they let themselves be lead astray by faulty irrational thinking and a belief that political goals can be achieved through violence. Most political extremism is illusory, foolish, irrational, vacuous, superficial, and/or unrealistic. Bombs will never change the basic objectives of a free market capitalism. If fact, I would hazard to say that terrorism does the exact opposite of what it proposes to do and reinforces democratic objectives and strengthens governments and law enforcement. In the meantime, however, our hearts are broken, our tears burn, the lump in our throats does not go away, and we stare at the ground in shame and horror, unable to understand why our world is so imperfect and broken.
On finding that which is lost
I hate losing things. I am forgetful and absentminded, so from time to time, my things go missing. I’ve lost, at various times, keys, wallets, shoes, jackets, bills, letters, hats, gloves, watches, pants (don’t ask), money, check book, eye glasses, sun glasses, umbrellas, Ipod, socks, candy, pens, maps, my way. You can imagine, then, that I am also an expert in finding lost things since I have so much practice in this art. I am an expert in tracking a lost item through my house, into my car, across town, past my office, and into the lost-and-found in the business school or wherever it might end up. I have found things that I never knew were lost in the first place. When looking for that which is lost, one must always imagine that the object is in a place that you never imagined it could occupy–that’s why it’s lost. There is a certain ironic irrationality to lost items which makes them doubly hard to find—you would never expect them to hide in the refrigerator, or in the sofa, or behind the stove, under the recycling, or in the dirty clothes hamper. I especially hate it when lost things find their way into random pocket on jackets that have not been out of the closet in years. Particularly painful are documents which you have accidentally thrown away, such as passports, birth certificates. The state of being lost is always accompanied by the emotion of loss. When an object goes missing–an engagement ring, for example–the involved parties immediately go into panic mode which is quickly replaced by a sense of loss and mourning and sadness. Although possessions may be replaced, we often develop an emotional attachment to those objects which accompany us on a daily basis–keys, wallet, glasses, phone, rings–even though that attachment is irrational and unfounded. The objects we carry will never have any feelings for us, and when we finally abandon them, they will never know that we are gone. Our objects are blind and dumb, silent sentinels that watch over our daily comings and goings. Yet we grieve when they go missing, but not just because it is totally inconvenient, but because we have been careless with our thing and let them out of our care. Looking for lost objects is painful, full of anxiety, angst-ridden, depressing, time consuming, and, often, fruitless. Who bothers to pick up a lost item and return it to the lost-and-found? Sometimes, however, my faith in human nature is restored by a good Samaritan who makes the effort to retrieve a lost object and return it to the owner, which is what I do when I find a lost ID or book or object which might be identified. When I can’t tell to whom it belongs, I will put the object in the lost-and-found, hoping that the owner will back track over their steps and return to the scene of the tragedy. Once, someone gave me a lost jacket, insisting that it was mine. Since I couldn’t find the owner, and no one stepped up to claim it, I put it in the closet–didn’t want to disappoint the good Samaritan that returned a lost object to me. When you do find that which is lost, you are overwhelmed by an enormous sense of relief. You might even cry. There are times, however, when the lost stays lost and you have to replace it. You kick yourself because of your carelessness, you second guess your actions, you wonder how you could have been so klutzy as to lose such an important thing–your keys, wallet, phone, watch, shoes, pants (don’t ask). I once lost a hat in the middle of a blizzard because I didn’t tie my chin strap and the wind stole my hat. Try as I might, though, I am always fighting the forces of carelessness, trying to conserve by stuff.
On finding that which is lost
I hate losing things. I am forgetful and absentminded, so from time to time, my things go missing. I’ve lost, at various times, keys, wallets, shoes, jackets, bills, letters, hats, gloves, watches, pants (don’t ask), money, check book, eye glasses, sun glasses, umbrellas, Ipod, socks, candy, pens, maps, my way. You can imagine, then, that I am also an expert in finding lost things since I have so much practice in this art. I am an expert in tracking a lost item through my house, into my car, across town, past my office, and into the lost-and-found in the business school or wherever it might end up. I have found things that I never knew were lost in the first place. When looking for that which is lost, one must always imagine that the object is in a place that you never imagined it could occupy–that’s why it’s lost. There is a certain ironic irrationality to lost items which makes them doubly hard to find—you would never expect them to hide in the refrigerator, or in the sofa, or behind the stove, under the recycling, or in the dirty clothes hamper. I especially hate it when lost things find their way into random pocket on jackets that have not been out of the closet in years. Particularly painful are documents which you have accidentally thrown away, such as passports, birth certificates. The state of being lost is always accompanied by the emotion of loss. When an object goes missing–an engagement ring, for example–the involved parties immediately go into panic mode which is quickly replaced by a sense of loss and mourning and sadness. Although possessions may be replaced, we often develop an emotional attachment to those objects which accompany us on a daily basis–keys, wallet, glasses, phone, rings–even though that attachment is irrational and unfounded. The objects we carry will never have any feelings for us, and when we finally abandon them, they will never know that we are gone. Our objects are blind and dumb, silent sentinels that watch over our daily comings and goings. Yet we grieve when they go missing, but not just because it is totally inconvenient, but because we have been careless with our thing and let them out of our care. Looking for lost objects is painful, full of anxiety, angst-ridden, depressing, time consuming, and, often, fruitless. Who bothers to pick up a lost item and return it to the lost-and-found? Sometimes, however, my faith in human nature is restored by a good Samaritan who makes the effort to retrieve a lost object and return it to the owner, which is what I do when I find a lost ID or book or object which might be identified. When I can’t tell to whom it belongs, I will put the object in the lost-and-found, hoping that the owner will back track over their steps and return to the scene of the tragedy. Once, someone gave me a lost jacket, insisting that it was mine. Since I couldn’t find the owner, and no one stepped up to claim it, I put it in the closet–didn’t want to disappoint the good Samaritan that returned a lost object to me. When you do find that which is lost, you are overwhelmed by an enormous sense of relief. You might even cry. There are times, however, when the lost stays lost and you have to replace it. You kick yourself because of your carelessness, you second guess your actions, you wonder how you could have been so klutzy as to lose such an important thing–your keys, wallet, phone, watch, shoes, pants (don’t ask). I once lost a hat in the middle of a blizzard because I didn’t tie my chin strap and the wind stole my hat. Try as I might, though, I am always fighting the forces of carelessness, trying to conserve by stuff.
On losing the Super Bowl
I don’t quite understand the significance of a winner-take-all one-game playoff for the championship of the National Football League. After watching over forty of these things, none of them deliver the drama of the hype that is built up before the big game which turns out to be extremely anticlimactic. Even the exciting, close games are anti-climactic. Yesterday’s game was no different. Some great plays were mixed in with a few awful mistakes, and the Ravens won by three. So, on this given Sunday, the team from Baltimore won by three, which is not to say they were better, it just says that they won. Time finally ran out. The final grains of sand trickled through the hour glass, and the team from San Francisco came up three points short. I’m just not convinced that it means anything. The simulacra of battle, a non-lethal version of “take-the-hill”, is played out on a grid of one hundred yards with each team defending their “hill” at each end of the field, harkening back to the eighteenth century when the English and the French faced off on different battlefields across Europe. What is it about human beings, males in particular, that they must fight to prove dominance, to elect a winner. Why are we hardwired for violence? Granted, football is incredibly violent, but protections are built in to make it very painful, but generally non-lethal. Players are wounded in the simulacra of war, but they aren’t killed. Football is the ultimate simulacra of war with rules in place so that a winner might emerge and vanquish the loser. The losers are destined not only to the shame of defeat, but because they are not destroyed, they must live with their defeat. The worst aspect to their defeat may not be the humiliation of watching the victors pick up their trophy, but perhaps it is the dark shadow of losing which will descend on them, erasing them and their excellent season from the collective memories of all who saw them lose. No one remembers the losers–no fame, no glory, the taste of blood and dirt in their mouths as they lie beaten and sore on the ground, the sound of the winners shouting out their victory. The losers lost only by three points in this case, which makes their loss all the more bitter and painful. Was it a question of luck, of skill, of the stars, of predestination, of cowardly behavior, of bad planning, of poor execution, or perhaps it was a combination of many of those things. Now, it is all over, and planning for the next season is already underway. The fans will remember their heroes, and the vanquished have been swept into the shadows of sports history inhabited by the unlucky second-place finishers. Other than a little excitement when the lights went out, or when the losing side almost caught up to their destroyers, the game was a humdrum affair. Ironically, more people will remember the new advertisements that were displayed during breaks than will remember the actual game, which was pedestrian at best, totally forgettable at worst. So Audi, M & M Mars, Volkswagen, Anhauser-Busch, and Dodge had great games displaying their latest marketing strategies for selling their products. Perhaps playing the Super Bowl is less about deciding which team is best and more about a lollapalooza canon-sized salute to our hyper-consumer capitalistic society, obsessed with selling/buying the next big thing. The game is only a pretext to selling us more stuff.
On twenty-nine degrees below zero
In northern Minnesota (yes, a redundancy) the temperature dropped to minus 29 degrees Fahrenheit this morning. This is not bragging, it’s just weather. There have been far colder places in the USA, including the far reaches of Alaska where it is often lots colder. Yet, there is a certain something in the cold weather experience which tests a person’s metal. Do you have what it takes to keep on trying on a morning when your car probably won’t start, your water pipes may be in danger of freezing, the dog has to be kept inside, ice crystals float like little diamonds in the air, the snow crunches under your feet, and you are bundled up like the Michelin Man. Exposed skin will freeze in less than five minutes at that temperature, so you better know how your cold weather gear works and pay attention. Even the slightest problem, flat tire, no gas, flat battery, turns into a dangerous crisis at that temperature. God forbid your furnace or electricity go out at this temperature. Twenty-nine degrees below zero is nothing to fool with and it’s a temperature that puts a huge stress on everything–buildings, heating, plumbing, electricity, travel, cars, trucks, people, children. If you have to be outside for any time at all, you must know what you are up against, or it could be fatal. Waiting outside for anything for any amount of time can chill you to the bone and puts a huge stress on fingers, toes, ears, noses, and feet. Usually people can keep their core warm with a good jacket or parka, but we always skimp on the footwear and the gloves. And let’s not even talk about taking your gloves off for moment to do something barehanded at this temperature, which is extremely problematic. If the wind is blowing at all, you have a big problem if you are forced to walk any distance at all. At twenty-nine degrees below zero your breath freezes almost instantly, and the cold air will make your teeth hurt as your breathe. I’ve had a car battery die at minus twenty-four, which is almost just as bad. My super-cold weather gear consisted of long-johns, wool socks, various layers of cotton and wool t-shirts, thermal wear, down-filled gloves, packs (insulated boots), and a down-filled hat with ear-flaps. None of this clothing will win any fashion awards, but it will keep you from freezing to death when regular clothing just cannot do the job. Because that’s what we’re talking about–dying. When it’s a hundred degrees in the shade, you pour yourself another glass of water, stay out of the sun, relax, take it easy, but at twenty-nine degrees below zero you have to face a few challenges if you have to go outside, go to work, to school. And just because it’s cold does not mean that emergency services don’t have to be functioning–police, fire, city, ambulances, garbage, snow removal. Curiously, we know that crime tends to dip a bit when the temperature gets this low, so criminals don’t like to go out either when it’s twenty-nine degrees below zero. If you don’t like icy conditions, stay in Texas or Arizona or Florida or California because this is an either you like it or you hate it. And there’s no sense in torturing yourself with cold weather if you can help it. Cold weather does not make you more honest, or a better person, or more moral, or more ethical, but what it will do for you is clear: you are certainly a more careful person when it comes to your daily routine because anyone who has ever suffered frostbite, certainly does not want to do it again. Bundle up out there–cold nose, warm heart.
On the Spanish fighting bulls
There is no figure more iconic in Spanish culture than the fighting bull, all 1,400 pounds of him. When students ask me about Spain, they inevitably also ask if we will be going to a bull fight, the ritual slaughter of one of these brutal animals. Even though the bull is highly recognized, highly iconic, he occupies a very small part of real Spanish culture. Yet bullfighting is such an odd and outrageous spectacle that it has become one of the most recognizable parts of Spain’s image. The fighting bull, a rather savage and brutal species of cattle, are native to Spain and have been bred for centuries for this one purpose: to be killed by a “matador de toros” or torero, armed only with a very sharp sword and his cape. Given the ferocious nature of these animals, bullfighting is an extremely dangerous line of work, and many men have died because of it. The bulls are raised in the distant high pastures of the central, southern, and western mesas that cover most of Spain. Curiously, the cows of the same species are relatively tame in spite of their large fierce appearance. The ranchers that raise these animals begin to cull their herds to the “plaza” when the bulls reach about three years of age and weigh in at about 1,200 to 1,500 pounds. I will skip the exact details of the ritual killing of these animals, ritual slaughter because others have written about it before and done a much better job–Hemingway, for example, in Death in the Afternoon. One might make an argument for the art of bullfighting, the danger, the ballet, the pressure, but I’m not super-impressed. Raising a large animal in order to kill it with a sword seems like animal cruelty, I’m just saying. Others would disagree and say that this is tradition, culture, and passion, but I would suggest that not all traditions, not all bits of culture, are worth saving. I don’t think that Spanish culture is better because of bullfighting, and I don’t think Spanish culture would be missing a whole lot if bullfighting went the way of the Dodo bird. A few old cigar-smoking curmudgeons with raspy voices will be free at five o’clock on any given afternoon, ranchers will have to raise regular beef cattle, and a few skinny guys with good sword skills will have to get real jobs. Still others will argue that it is hypocritical to challenge or criticize bullfighting and then go eat a hamburger. Yes, we slaughter our beef cattle, but it takes but a moment, not the average fifteen minutes that a single bull might last.To idealize bullfighting seems disingenuous, if not outright reckless, turning the ritual slaughter of an animal into a spectacle and business. Since I am not really Spanish, (I hear the murmuring), I just don’t understand either the ritual or the tradition. Perhaps I am just a bleeding-heart, tree-hugging, granola eating liberal that has no guts for a little pain and suffering, and I don’t understand the beauty of the pageantry, the glory and art of the successful bullfighter who runs that sword into the bull’s back. Perhaps I just don’t understand the danger, the challenge, the pain, the athleticism of the entire dark scene–blood, sweat, sand, swords, pink socks, and guys with ponytails. The bull is at the center of an extremely bizarre happening that is almost impossible to describe to the uninitiated. The animals are huge, fast, and dangerous, and the guys trying to kill them are definitely risking their lives, but in the end, I might ask, what’s the point? Prove they are more macho than the animal?
On mountain climbing
Seriously, just because it’s there? People climb mountains, walls, fences, and hills for various and different reasons. Some do it because they are escaping, others because they are bored, still others are trying to get some place and they don’t want to walk around the mountain to get there. I sometimes like to sit on top of a fence–the view from above can be intriguing. Mountain climbers climb because they have to do it, but once they make it to the top, what then? Many find the danger scintillating, giving them a natural high (no pun intended), or perhaps the climb is a challenge which forces them to examine their own mortality. As a child, my entire extended family would climb a hill called Silver Cliff, which is just north of Two Harbors, Minnesota on the shore of Lake Superior. There was a dirt trail on the backside of the cliff that was not too difficult to climb, but it was a challenge, and the view from up there was breathtaking. The climb was dirty and sweaty, but the best bet for success was to just climb straight up the trail. I did feel a sense of accomplishment each time I made the climb, but at heart I am not a mountain climber. Perhaps what makes mountain climbing so interesting is that sometimes, not often, a climber dies. I would not risk my life to climb a mountain, but then again, I’ll never get to see the world from the top of Mount Everest. Climbing mountains is about the adrenaline rush, about the release of dopamine. If it were only a question of pleasure, we could put the mystery of mountain climbing away, forget it forever, but climbing is a behavior that just will not go away that easily. If we isolate climbing as an innate human behavior that has been genetically wired into our brains by evolution, one has to ask the question: how does this behavior give a human an advantage in surviving into the next generation? Since not all of us are climbers, I get the feeling that this is a very special over-specialization that gave some people an advantage, perhaps to migrate, maybe to seek higher, safer ground, to hunt and pursue prey at higher ranges, to explore and to find more food or better hunting grounds. Those are the obvious benefits of being able to climb, but I suspect that it goes deeper or higher or steeper. Is mountain climbing a sign of prestige for men? Do mountain climbers have a better chance of passing on their genes before they make that one false move and fall? Does the opposite sex find mountain climbing a sign of virility or femininity or a sign of physical prowess that might ensure the passing on of good genetic material? Mountain climbing is certainly the hallmark of risk takers, that group of humans who love roller-coasters, cliff diving, scuba diving, running with the bulls, racing fast cars, exploring unmapped jungles, spelunking, sky-diving, and snake handling. I don’t get my kicks from any of those activities, so I wouldn’t know, but the few times I’ve been trapped on a roller-coaster, I have just about thrown up from the adrenaline rush, so I’ll just leave those experiences to the junkies. Mountain climbing should go against the self-preservation behavior built into every human being. We are all hard-wired for self-preservation, otherwise none of us would be here, so I guess that mountain climbing is an enigma wrapped in a conundrum shrouded in mystery.
On Robinson Crusoe
Robinson Crusoe, just as fictional a character as Don Quixote or Sherlock Holmes, has come to be just as real as Ishmael or Harry Potter. Shipwrecked and alone on a Caribbean island, Crusoe must rebuild his solitary life as an Englishman, lost in a wilderness and with no hope of rescue in the near future. The idea of living for years, abandoned and alone on an island far from civilization, is a frightening one. Most people cannot even begin to imagine what it might be like to live in isolation from all human contact. Of course, there are those who might dream of such an arrangement, but for the most part, we are gregarious and need human interaction to be happy and productive. Human interaction gives meaning and purpose to our lives. Being a “castaway” with no hope of rescue is almost as horrifying as being walled up behind a brick wall. Our literature is filled with these surreal situations which firmly address some of the deepest and darkest human fears, one of which being the fate of Robinson Crusoe: to find oneself totally alone with no hope of relief in the near future. The very term, “castaway,” seems to devalue the victim of an accident over which they may have had no control, such as shipwreck. To be a castaway is to find oneself alone and abandoned, deprived of the creature comforts, deprived of human interaction, deprived of the structures that give our lives meaning–law, commerce, culture, society, ethics, art, time, neighbors, family. The enormous challenge that the character must face is his own motivation for taking care of himself in the face of having to live absolutely alone forever. The idea of rescue is probably the only thing that stands between Crusoe and his own insanity. In other words, the hope of rescue, no matter how small, is that one little glimmer of hope that keeps the castaway from just lying down and dying where he has washed up on the shore of his desert island. What is curious about the novel and Crusoe is how he is faced with reinventing a series of technologies that he has always taken for granted: the wheel, a shovel, baskets, bottles, cooking dishes, barrels. Eventually, he will adapt what he has on the island to solve many of these sorts of problems, but he is very vexed at recreating a table and chair for himself, realizing that the skilled craftsman who create these common everyday items are very highly skilled and armed with the highly specialized tools of their trades. Alone with only a minimum of tools and raw materials, Crusoe must come to terms with his own inadequacy as a craftsman with no training and no skills. Crusoe cannot reinvent England on his island, although he tries very hard. When he is sick, he has no doctor, when he wants to make bread, he has no flour, when he needs advice, he is alone. He lives, eats, sleeps, hunts, works, and walks absolutely by himself. When the tide rises, the storms rise up, the earth shakes, the sun beats down, he must face all of these things alone. Crusoe’s levels of desperation are real and frequently bring him to tears, but the power of self-preservation is so strong and so persistent that in spite of an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, he still gets up every day and stays alive, working, eating, cleaning, planning, inventing, solving problems. Crusoe’s story is credible, verging on verisimilitude, in fact because the human spirit, even in the face of horrific odds, is indomitable and unbending, invincible as it were. Crusoe has lots of failures as he attempts to rebuild English society on his little island, but he also has many successes, growing grain, training a parrot, building his “homes.” In the end, of course, he does leave his island with his man, Friday, but he has spent almost three decades on his desert island jail.
On terrorism
Note: I wrote this note this summer, but I never published it because I thought it sounded preachy and self-serving, as if I were standing on some moral highground, but after today’s events, I don’t care. Here it is, without edits, written about the massacre in the Colorado movie theater this summer. I haven’t changed a word. On the heels of yet another mindless shooting overnight in Colorado, the nation reels with yet another list of dead and wounded. Is this the price we pay for living in a free society where we allow just about anybody to have access to a deadly arsenal of weapons? I understand why the framers put the second amendment into the constitution, but I’m also wondering if we have outgrown our need for that amendment. The monuments to the dead are beginning to pile up across the country. Twelve dead in Colorado, and the number may grow. Now we can add Aurora, Colorado to our list of national disgraces and tragedies. Having lived with terrorism my whole life, both in Spain and the United States, my soul is worn out. Tears no longer help. Any sense of revenge on the perpetrator is both useless and pointless. The dead are gone. Their personal struggles are all over, but those who remain–the parents, the siblings, the friends, the families and the community–are forever damaged by this massacre of innocents. Most killing is usual personal and limited to those people that the murderer has wanted to kill: an ex-wife, girlfriend, drug dealer, but no matter what the motive, it’s always personal and explainable. Yet terrorism is the senseless massacre of innocents. Though some cynics might argue that there are no innocents anywhere, I would argue to the contrary, and say this, people at school, in a movie theater, at work, in a market, on a plane are all innocents from the terrorist’s point of view. Now, there is a callus forming on the wounded part of my own soul. I feel insensed at what this idiot has done, but he has accomplished nothing other than expressing his anger with the world and getting himself a life-sentence in prison. And now everyone knows his name. He has ruined his life and the lives of countless others, but the very sad thing is that his actions are totally pointless in the grand scheme of things. Tomorrow the sun will come up, the list of insane terrorists will be one name longer, the list of the dead will be a little longer still, but in no time, most of the world will forget, just as we have forgotten Killeen, Littleton, Fort Hood, Virgina Tech. The list of mass killings on Wikipedia is actually rather extensive. The pain and tragedy of such an incident as Aurora, Colorado or a Waco, Texas is real and true, but in a true act of self-preservation, we bury the dead, say our good-byes, and move on–until the next time. I’m not in favor of changing any laws, but I do wonder how a society produces monsters of this type. Is it a blatant consumerism, a culture which obsesses on success and punishes mediocrity with banishment? Is it a sick culture which produces monsters that shoot and kill blindly, in the dark, with no sense of right or wrong, lead by stupidity and ignorance? There is no meaning in the killings in Colorado, in spite of what the killer might think. His illusions of granduer are no more than that, illusions.