News of a small town

The police sergeant is dead. Burglars were robbing a house, and neighbors called because of a suspicious car. The policemen came, and were baited into a high speed chase. For fifty miles, they chased the burglars. Twenty minutes later, the police sergeant lost control of his car. A helicopter took him to the hospital, and even though he had been given first aid the entire time he died. The burglars were caught, much later.

The police sergeant is dead. Young, with young children, and he's dead. Less than half a mile away from me. The robbed house, I mean. Half a mile away. I'm sitting here trying desperately to avoid a cliche. "You hear about these things all the time, but it doesn't really hit you until it�s your house or your neighbors house." There's no original way to say that, and you won't believe me until this happens to you. It's strange that I'm so disturbed about this robbery. It's removed from me, and I still want revenge.

Deep down, I want blood and I want revenge. It didn't happen to me, and I want revenge. The men did not stick a knife in the gut of the sergeant - they did not actively cause his death. (I'm grappling with saying that - what did they have in mind when they baited the officers into a highspeed chase? the sergeant's death? escape? I don't know.) It's only the veneer of culture that keeps my base side in check. If I saw the burglars, I would not leap at their faces. It still frightens me that that urge is there. I've always maintained that the death penalty is barbaric, and yet I want revenge. For something that didn't happen to me, for something that was perhaps unintentional, for something that isn't a capital offense by a long shot.

We didn't have school today, in honor of the sergeant. Sports, however, went on as scheduled. It's nice to know that our school system has it's priorities so firmly in check. I almost felt guilty - I spent most of today playing video games with Mike. I am terrible at Starcraft! I had fun, though, being terrible at Starcraft. Starcraft is terrible hard. All the buildings began to look alike, and I messed up royally quite often. There were these crazy gross slugs and floating blue skeletons. Mike says he doesn't know whether or not I had fun without reading my journal, which is highly amusing. I've been told that I'm "transparent" and I wholly believe it. "Subtle as a nailgun," in fact. I had grand fun though! There - writ in HTML.

---

I try not to write journal entries when I'm seething with anger. It's strange, what a rational reaction! Would that I were always so levelheaded. At the same time, I'm furious right now, and I'm writing a journal entry. Hot, caught up in my throat anger. Filthy, thick, and my eyes narrow and my nose curls. Furious.

---

I wrote that last night. As I wrote the last line, my father came into the computer room and wrenched my shoulders and shouted at me. At seven thirty, he had said "Have you done all your homework for tomorrow?" That is why I was so furious. Have I done my homework? I haven't been asked that since I was twelve. I hardly dignified it with a response. I mumbled, and kept typing. He kept nagging me. "What do you have to do for school tomorrow? Have you finished your applications?"

I refused to answer. I refused to. For the first time in my life. I thought "How dare he?" And How dare he? For the first time in my life, I sat and listened to my gut for once. My father is wrong. My father is wrong. I can't get the words out of my head - My father is wrong. He's never been wrong. He's always spoken gospel. When he tears up, so do I. When he yells, I cower. That's how it's always worked. But he is wrong wrong wrong. For the first time. For the first time, I notice it.

"If you nag me about my work, I will not do it." I stared him in the eyes, and smiled. Sweetly. Coyly.

"If you were one of my students, I would have slapped you." I've always been prone to exaggeration. It's what I do. I stretch things out of proportion; I take words out of context. I make things out to be worse than they really are. It's a side effect of writing a journal. It happens.

I swear to you, though, my father spoke those words last night. "If you were one of my students, I would have slapped you." And he didn't speak them - he let them thunder through the house and reverberate in the attic. And I wasn't scared of him. I swung my hips, I looked over my shoulder, and I climbed upstairs into bed. I didn't do a goddamn bit of work. And I didn't cry either.

He took away the internet connection. I read and relaxed all evening, but I miss my internet people. I later found an article from the Chronicle of Higher Ed on Internet Addiction, and grew furious. I'm becoming very familiar with fury. We get along riotously well.

---

It had been too long since I had cried, apparently. If my parents no longer make me cry, if my school work no longer makes me cry, what will? I cried tears of recognition today. I can't think of anything else to call them. I was so pleased that someone had recognized what I was trying to say, that cold water fell from my eyes and beaded on the wool of my sweater.

The boy sitting across from me in class had been aiming a paper air plain at my head. I was amused, of course, because I haven't had a paper air plain thrown at me in quite some time. All of a sudden, I burst into tears. My lips quivered, my face was cold with water, and my sweater was wet. This hasn�t happened in a very long time. I wanted to turn around to look at my friends and say, "I am myself again, I'm crying!" I wanted to show off my tears.

The poor boy throwing the air plain graciously apologized. He thought he had caused me to cry. I said, "No, no, it isn't you. I'm far too happy." My english teacher had written on my latest paper, "I don't know anyone your age - or at your stage of life - who is working as hard as you are to achieve the wholeness that you speak of."

Her comments struck a chord. What stage of life am I at? Is my age irrelevant? I'm beginning to think so. Sad, though, because I use age as a catch all for Things Wrong With Me - "It's all because I'm young. It will go away as I grow older." At the same time, I feel like I'm going through what most people did five years ago. I'm waking up now to the fact that my parents are human, wrong, and have different values than I am. Shouldn't I have gotten through this earlier?

"The paper is very interesting, informative, and holds meaning for you - most importantly." That's what made me cry - "Holds meaning for you." I can't put it into words. I talked about the wholeness, balance, the shadow, the mother, archetypes. Scratching the surface. Self-knowledge. All those ellusive things. They choke my throat. It means more to me than I could write into that paper. I tried, I tried my hardest. I wrote about prowling the labyrinth, about being unconscious, about sleepwalking. It wasn't enough, it's never quite right. It's close, though. It means something. It all does.

---

Moxie called me the other night, which made me glow on the insides for about an hour. I've known him for a long time, three years. No, I suppose I never will really know him. I only know the parts that he shows me. He's still only pixels. He's also a voice, though. He wants to write, and I want him to write. He says "science fiction" but we all know he should write humor. He's deathly funny, and I hardly ever catch it. I say "I don't know him" but we all know I lie. I know that he's a good egg, that he thinks he's old fashioned, that he wonders if his redneck and artist side can coexist. No - I know him. Surprising, considering how much I talk about myself.

It made me sick to think that I wouldn't get to hear from him again. My parents took away the internet connection once. We never talked openly about it, so perhaps the modem broke. I'm not sure. We never talk about anything openly. We shove things under the rugs and into the closets and under the staircase and hope that no one ever brings them up again. We'll never talk about my depression, my uncle who killed himself, my dead cat, the internet connection. Ever.

In sweet, dulcimer tones I said, "Dad, can you fix the password?"

"Maybe when there's a break in this game. It's really exciting." I could hear the dead tone in his voice. I wasn't sure if he were serious or not.

"When there's a break in the action, then?" Saccharine. Nauseating.

"I'm lazy." He stared at me with beady eyes. "What you said last night hurt."

yeah, your ego. That's the only thing hurt here. I'm not going to be passive any more.

Later note: I still have no internet connection. I�m at school right now. I�m furious.

2000-02-03, Anger and some explanations.

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