Tuesday, April 11, 2006

I’m not sure exactly what I’m being accused of whenever anyone finds out I can watch Forensic Files back to back for hours. But it says something about me that doesn’t sit well with people. That I know where all the famous murders have been committed. Where Sharon Tate had her last meal (Mexican at El Coyote).

The blood isn’t what attracts me. I can’t watch ER or Nip/Tuck without covering my face. I can’t bear Scorsese or Tarantino, because to see violence acted out is agonizing. Even the decimation of computer-generated characters in Grand Theft Auto upsets me deeply.

The murder itself doesn’t interest me. It’s the aftermath I’m drawn to. The clues that reveal people and their behavior. People at the end of all hope, driven to end everyone else’s hope, or that of one person in particular.

The aftermath; when all is in repose. When the crime becomes stately, and minutely observed. The ritual of investigation. The solemnity of interrogation. To me, this seems like grace.



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