The will to attribute cause is very strong. Traverse the intranet to the cacophonous melody... why. did. he. do. it? The multivocal chorus follows a simple rhythm: to whatever one doesn't like, one attributes blame. Don't like guns? Then gun laws. Don't like angry talk? Then angry talkers. e-t-c-e-t-e-r-a...
As any decent human being would, thinking about J.L. Loughner leaves me dejected. As shitheads swarm to label Loughner "crazy" it becomes disgustingly obvious that this young man has carried that. very. label. for some time. This could not be easy.
To attempt to make some sense of the world, to think, to play with ideas, to speak one's mind... and then — oh, then — to recognize your label: anathema to the social body, a nuisance... a problem. Fuck. I watched the kid's youtubing... the kid is at work. Playing with his newly acquired ideas, trying something... thinking. And fuck if that isn't the worst thing imaginable. Crazy, they say. They mean: I don't understand and I'm uncomfortable.
It seems that the boy, one auspicious afternoon, had a eureka moment... language is referential! Words, from a certain angle, don't really mean anything. But, but, but... the cave dwellers don't want to hear that bullshit. They want some other bullshit, something the kid wasn't selling.
The kid has me upset because I think I know his pain. My days are dotted with these kids, the misfits. And Jesus will be damned to Hades if loud mouthed shitbirds won't find a way to crush the oddball. Because we have work to do. Dope him up and stick his ass in a cubicle, or a padded room — whichever minimizes resistance. Fucking J.L. Loughner. Poor bastard. He did a terrible thing.
Amen.
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