Watching the manhunt unfold on Twitter, I’m struck by the fact that I have nothing clever to say.
When I first heard that a policeman had been shot at MIT, there was no impulse to tie it to the marathon bombings. I thought these guys would be smarter, somehow, and that they would have left the city right now.
I keep coming back to that photo of Martin Richard, a little boy watching the marathon – one of the alleged bombers looming behind him.
These guys were kids themselves recently, is what I keep thinking. They most likely cried over scraped knees and took lunchboxes to school. Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was born in 1993. He’s a 90s kid, for God’s sake.
I keep thinking that having a city on lockdown is normal and reasonable. No one is questioning that decision and I don’t question it myself. But background checks for weapons, though? Totally irrational and out-of-this-world.
As a P.S. to all of this – while everyone was watching Boston, a coffee shop bomb in Baghdad killed 27 people.
There’s nothing good to report. Days like this make me want to do nothing – just shut off the phone and sit on a park bench somewhere with Lev, and watch him chase pigeons around. It’s finally warm in Moscow, and he is wearing his new little keds.
I’m not good at this whole “love” thing. I’m not good at this whole “family” thing. Not because I’m somehow prejudiced against these concepts, or because I find them boring, but because I’m a fractured person. I’m an old-time painting. Look closely, and you can see the cracks in the paint.
I’ve discovered that the only thing that matters is loving your loved ones. You have to love your loved ones, or else they grow to be misshapen and dented by your lack of love. I say this as a severely misshapen and dented person – so dented, that my market value is too low for me to be a decent investment. So dented that it’s a little embarrassing. I’m in a leadership position at Russia’s oldest English-language newspaper. I’m a wife and mother. And say to you: growing up unloved is the most terrifying thing. It does things to you that you don’t even notice – until you begin doing the very same things to the people around you.
I shouldn’t talk about these things publicly. At the very least, I should save them up for a memoir of some kind, not splash them across a blog like a 15-year-old girl. But I don’t have the energy for memoirs, frankly, and neither do I have the self-restraint to go about my business, keep writing for various publications, and somehow not talk to my readers about what’s going on inside of me. I don’t do it out of some vain hope that it may change somebody’s life. Rather, I seek to unburden myself.
The Russian theater world is currently discussing the tragic suicide of the young executive director of the famous Kolyada Theater in Yekaterinburg, in the Urals. Of course, the main portion of the blame appears to lie with her ex-lover, a man who humiliated and threatened her, driving her to the brink of despair. But abusers sense their victims’ weakness long ahead of time. They’re sharks that smell blood in the water. And too often, that blood is spilled early on, in childhood, when we’re too young to defend ourselves or to comprehend what’s happening to us and throw up an emotional barrier of some kind.
I can’t argue against vulnerability – without vulnerability, I could not write. But I can and will argue against being broken There’s nothing romantic about. Nothing artistic. Nothing special. Broken is broken. It turns you into nothing more than a collection of dangerous, glinting shards.
I’m kinda worried that this is what it all comes down to. Sometimes.
There’s just tragic coincidences – and one deranged fucker who shot people in a theater (and the deranged fucker even looks like Kevin from “We Need To Talk About Kevin,” based on the photo released to the press at this time).
But I do think that the franchise is associated with a lot of darkness in the popular imagination, and I think that’s going to continue. The darkness is self-perpetuating, at this point.