Karl (louderback) wrote,
Karl
louderback

Today is shaping up as a day of inconvenience and vague grotesquerie.

As I type I am off-line. I began my day greeted by a lack of Internet connection. Mediacom has taken over from AT&T and they are not working as yet. To whom it may concern: drop any e-mail address you have for me that uses "@home.com" and go to my permanent addresses.

The local television station today showed a scene that I found extremely disturbing though I couldn't say precisely why. Some blond kid named Chris got beaten to death in a Mardi Gras party. I gather this made the national news because he was killed rescuing someone else from the same fate. After his death his mother permitted his body to be used as an organ bank. The local station had seven people sitting on one of their hyper-sectional-sofa pieces of furniture who were all recipients of organs from Chris. They introduced them selves as I am the heart, I am the pancreas, I am the lung and such. It went on for a while in a faintly whining droning kind of way. I couldn't listen. It was just too macabre. All those people siting there with parts of one person in them and identifying as that part. I never really understood emotionally the word macabre - intellectually I knew the definition and thought I understood it. Now I do understand it. I am not pleased to understand macabre.

It will be a difficult to deal with the day or two of disconnect that I will doubtless experience. I am pretty thoroughly addicted to the Internet.

My Internet is back. It was gone all morning for no better reason than a failure to reset the router. *sigh*

Posts have been depressing of late, two of those I follow are acting depressed and angry. I feel for the people whose lives I glimpse in LJ. I can't say why particularly. It is a voyeuristic pleasure of some sort. I know the diary phenomenon has been analyzed to death, but I am curious as to why I seem to have bought into it so fully.

I suppose my reactions to people have become predictable. sirlance certainly was able to do so. I don't find any distress in predictability, only an inevitable kind of dulling. I think dulling is the right word for what is happening to my affection for the Internet. One more thing.

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