Trials & Tribulations
I followed the Andrea
murder trial with the same heartsick interest that a lot of other
people did. For me, it was a case of Trainwreck Syndrome: you can't
bear to look, but you can't bear to not look ...
when it involves dead children and/or wildly dysfunctional parents. In
the end, I can't say that I agreed completely with the verdict: the
State of Texas' definitions of "right" and "wrong" are a bit narrowly
drawn for my tastes. (Plus I think that Andrea Yates had plenty of help
getting to that front row seat in the courtroom.) But all things
considered, I don't see how it could have turned out much differently.
Now the dog-mauling
taken center stage. Here in the Bay Area, this case was old news before
it even went to trial. We've been subjected to the execrable
Marjorie Knoller and Robert Noel for over a year now, ever since the
day Diane Whipple was torn to pieces in the hallway in front of her
apartment. As a confirmed non-dog-lover -- dogs were permanently ruined
for me as a teenager, and I've never looked back -- I likely would have
sided with the prosecution anyway. The lack of remorse, coupled
with the relentless unlikeability of the defendants, have
made it easier to loathe them outright. I'm drawn to news of this trial
because I want to 'be there' when these fudkers go down.
Still, none of these
media-intensive recent trials have interested me even a bazillionth as
much as what took place in a TicTac courtroom yesterday morning.
I've got to tell you:
tough staying focused on office supply orders and drive cylinder
density samples when you know that a thousand miles away your middle
child is standing in front of a judge, attempting to explain how she
just happened to come into possession of a controlled substance. As a
matter of fact, I'd say that it's pretty darned impossible. Not to
about this situation has been frustrating. It's frustrating not to have
the complete story, ever ... to have to piece it
together in inconsistent dribs and drabs, here and there.
It's frustrating to call the courthouse in TicTac and be plunged
immediately into the labyrinth of voicemail hell, never knowing the
warm and gentle embrace of an actual human voice. It's frustrating to
talk to Daughter #2 and hear her say that she'd "rather
go to jail than quit using," knowing that she is
quite likely to get her wish.
It's frustrating to
actually have the solution
-- to know from painful personal experience that the only way out of
the mess her life has become is to get clean, and then to STAY clean:
nothing else in her life will EVER
be 'fixed' until that
happens -- and knowing that my "solution" is about as welcome as Mike
Tyson in a State of Nevada boxing ring.
And it's frustrating to
feel so goddamned frustrated all the time. Frustration is the least
productive of all the emotions. I guess you could call frustration
Maraamu Tribe of emotions.
But for right now,
is all I've got ... that and guilt, of course: buckets and buckets of
my special patented brand of If
I hadn't/If I didn't/If I'd only
guilt ... a dollop or two of déjà vu (swap out
and cocaine for meth and Ecstacy, and you've got Young
Screwed-Up Addict Secra) ... a few random molecules of anger, directed
at everybody in general and nobody in particular, including myself and
my ex and God ("If I start
believing in You again, will You get her through this one?")
... and, on top of everything else, a sort of ennervating, bone-deep,
As a matter of fact, it's
likely that sadness may
completely eclipse frustration as the Emotion du Jour, as I once
again try to stay focused on time sheets and soil seepage and
aerially-deposited lead assessments, while a thousand miles away ...
... Daughter #2
"celebrates" her nineteenth birthday. next
throw a rock