Friday, May 13, 2005

No Motive Found.

True crime stories and poetry. Two other things that I love to read. (Check my bookshelves next time you're at my shop, er, house.)
Sometimes, in unexpected places, you find both.

"All of the victims were shot in their heads.
All but McGowan were shot in their beds."

This post.

...this post that I choose this week from American Digest; a satisfying, nourishing read for me because this week has been so crazy busy that I haven't had the opportunity to nourish myself that way.

I like to "nourish" myself sometimes with true crime, relived in the hands of a capable and vivid writer. What am I looking for? Madness? Maybe. I think that I am looking for that line. That thin red line that separates us from madness. Perhaps so I can recognize it when I approach it in myself.

And poetry. Vanderleun termed the lines above "found poetry." I have a few lines here and there, not my own, but belonging to someone with that gift, that I have taken to illustrate some of my life's things.

Often, when I recall my son before his condition overtook him, these lines are on my mind:

"Farewell thou child of my right hand and joy,
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy."
Ben Johnson

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