Horror. Everywhere there is horror. A fuel truck explodes in Nigeria, killing at least 95. Many villagers had rushed to the overturned truck trying to collect fuel when it crashed into a ditch, then it suddenly caught fire, then exploded. Children, charred beyond recognition.
I spend my days arguing with a lonely retarded woman from Belgium. What is the point in any of it. Everybody tells me there is none. But I feel like I'm right on the verge of winning, for once. The whole world gets to harangue me into submission on a daily basis. Can't I win just one fight? Even when I'm dueling with a deformed moron, I still want to win. Even if it is me.
Yesterday I drove to Napa to have lunch with Rachel while she was on her break from work. It felt good to be alone with her, without the responsibility of the baby boy. It is constant, any relief from it feels good, though we love the boy much. Still, it felt like we were getting way with something naughty. I wanted to have sex with her in the car, in the parking lot. We both thought better of it. It is, after all, where she works. But the idea of it was quite pleasant, of course. I am still thinking of it this morning. There is that, at least.
It was on the way home, through a steep twisting mountain pass called Trinity Road when I heard the news of the fuel truck exploding. It was NPR so their report came from a correspondent that had called in. It was a very brief interview. You could hear the distress in his voice. His stark description of the many dead was heartbreaking, is heartbreaking. The idea of such a thing, a stroke of incredible luck for an impoverished village that results in more suffering, ever piled on. There is no end.
It is a common symbol, I suppose, the division between the world's poor and the wealthy. The poor are always getting fucked. This time, in desperation, 95 of them being burned to death. It was difficult not to imagine the little children scooping up the oil into whatever cans they might have had, thinking themselves so lucky, until the flames came. Some were positioned in such a way that they seemed to be trying to outrun the sudden fire, with their backs to the truck.
About the same amount of people died in a nightclub in Rhode Island many years ago. There was a pyrotechnics fire that engulfed a small bar, trapping many inside, 30 or more in the exit hallway. It received extensive coverage on the news for quite some time. A tragedy of excess, it could be called. A bunch of drunk Americans enjoying a rock and roll show, unable to get out in the smoke and the panic. These little Nigerians were running in, thinking somebody might have dropped some pennies in the panicked confusion.
A friend from Tampa called yesterday. He's planning a trip out to San Francisco. We were trying to arrange to see each other. He told me of a book I should research concerning the Casey Anthony story. The book claims that she was innocent, though deeply troubled, the repeated victim of incest. It tells a very different story from the one popularly presented by the media and accepted by many. You can read an article about the book here if lurid stories of incest and child murder interest you at all. I couldn't read all of the article, but had to admit that my perception of Casey Anthony, if I thought about her at all, was that she got away with murder. Who knows.
Ah, the great freedom of the press. If the pen is mightier than the sword then a keyboard must be about equal to a set of nail clippers and the internet is engaged in the most protracted and endless civil war ever.