Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen

Yesterday Kate and I laughed about the fact that suicide is a crime. Can you get arrested for attempting such a crime but not succeeding? Maybe you get a Capra-esque Clarence instead to guide you through a miserable world sans you. And where does the law stop? Are there statutes for, say, auto-assassination?

It's no joke, but it kept popping up these past two days. Someone made a suicide crack at game night, common when a game of Clue is afoot. This afternoon I read my first Redivider story - and it was hardcore - and discovered that suicide is the refuge for an author's inspiration. (Or just a refuge from life, as per David Foster Wallace.) I took a break to watch the first episode of "Huff," but the Grim Reaper followed. "What's it about?" Kate asks. That's when the teenager shoots himself in the mouth and blood flies on his therapist's walls. Slow-motion hides nothing. "My weekend," I reply.

So I take a break from taking a break. Back to Redivider; story two awaits. But it knows (they always know) what's on my mind. (Only the subject is on my mind - as Douglas Adams says, don't panic.) And it delivers. Yes, it's also about suicide. Thank goodness we had those symphony tickets for tonight, as a diversion from a series of unfortunate fictional events. The program? Mahler's Symphony No. 6, sometimes referred to as "Tragic."