The Melting World

Remind me to never watch movies, especially violent ones, at night. Yesterday evening I went to the cinema to see “Bourne Supremacy” (alone) and I shared the experience with less than five other strangers.

In Japan, since the English language is supplementary to the sound and the music, the volume is increased to the extreme, and with the digital surround sound, I found myself imprisoned in thousands of squealing tires, crashing cars and was repeatedly shot through the heart, lungs, head, leg, shoulder, enough to turn me into a sponge.

Yes, I enjoyed the movie. The director of photography had some nice in-the-face, realistic, camera work, and with the sound that loud, I couldn’t escape immersion into the story…which is the crux of the problem. I often get too immersed in a book or a movie so that I stop distinguishing it as fiction; at least while I am reading or watching: the story is happening and I am there.

Last night I had two separate nightmares where people with guns were haunting me and my family. There is no fear greater than the fear that someone wants to harm your child. Wide-eyed, in the middle of the dark, I cursed men and war and guns…how can people possibly do such things after they have held a child in their arms? I came to the conclusion that the only real reason a human might naturally kill another would be if someone had killed their child.

Thinking of Iraq and Afghanistan and all the places on this planet where people kill each other, I pictured all the parents who have lost children to guns, tanks, knives, bombs, tasers, and landmines. These people must feel their hearts were torn out with bare hands. I cannot fathom such first-hand grief, although I grew up in the clouds of my mother’s silent grieving and taste the residue of such pain in my bones.

George W. calls some of these very parents terrorists, but I would call them humans who have suffered and wish revenge. I think, laudably, few parents who lose their children turn to revenge, but some must. I know not all so-called terrorists lost children, but many have lost someone they loved, or why else would they willingly die? Faith? Maybe, but I doubt it. Loss distinguishes those who fight as a job, for pay, and those who fight due to a history of death and pain.

I don’t justify either’s choice, both are delusional to me and both do not understand how violence begets violence. I suppose both soldiers and so-called terrorists (whom, recall, the media calls ‘freedom fighters’ whenever they are good for US business) eventually turn into the same sad, broken humans–but I can understand better the latter who began killing out of the loss of someone they had loved.

Reaching over to check my son last night, who felt as warm as a fresh loaf of bread, I wondered if I could ever live in the US again. That sinister fear invades every gesture and sentence on the TV and movie screen until people start to think no one can be trusted, not even your doctor, your neighbor, or your spouse, or your own self.

By the shape of the movies, by the actions of the US government, by the coiffed glee the news reporters report their wars, the respect for life–as a precious, beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime force that enriches us with each breath–dissipates into plastic consumption and necessary entertainment. The media, and perhaps eventually the general populace, have justified erasing others’ lives. What makes humans reach such a point?

I am not saying I don’t enjoy Hollywood movies, I do, but I wonder if I should? The barrage of fabricated metallic and human sounds and the bloody images of countless acts of violence submerge into my subconciousness, maybe even into my unconsciousness, and I am gripped in a panic of fear. Twice in the night. Such fear never would have visited me had I stayed home. Oh please, remind me never to watch movies late at night.