I fully intended to come home relatively early last night and catch up a bit on sleep, which has been—as a general sort of proposition—a rare commodity lately. Of course, in a way that is very much in keeping with my life in New York thus far, sleep proved elusive for a number of reasons and so instead I’ll once again make my way through the day with a back pocket full of delirium and the loud ticking of night-table clocks buried in the sounds of my steps.
The family apparently panicked in response to this “mass shooting” in Salt Lake City, even though there are drive-by-shootings and high-speed chases and gunpoint-muggings more or less continuously in Salt Lake City, which has a strikingly high per-capita violent crime rate. So far as I can tell, the only reason my family has reacted to this particular event with horror is because the media have covered it with the meme “mass shooting.” The media only covered it this way because the victims are wealthy and white, the shooter was wealthy and white, and the location was a picturesque place frequented by lots of wealthy, white members of the public on the lower east side. When the “beautiful people” get shot up, it always seems to horrify everyone. I suppose that’s how it works.
A sudden rush of sadness. I don’t know at what. At the ephemeral nature of life, I suppose. At uncertainty and change and the passage of time and the shrinking of futures and the short lives of mice and birds. At the loss, already pending, of this morning as a space of happening and possibility. At the already long-accomplished death of yesterday.
Bleh. I have to wake up and go.