i went to the opera last night, by myself. Glad I went but it was a kind of modern production of Dead Man Walking in opera and holy hell it was harrowing. I never read the book and I skipped the movie back in the nineties because around that time i'd had enough of thinking about murder, thanks, and i didn't need anymore. So I showed up to the opera without a clear idea of what was coming. I froze in my seat for the first scene where they acted out a horrific rape and murder and then I wept through the first half of the show. I managed to restore myself with a snickers bar at the break so i could observe the second half with some semblance of detachment. But the experience shook me back to a place I try not to go. Impossible not to think of my grandparents and wonder if/what their murderer thinks about them. How much did it hurt? Why do people kill? And what do we do with them afterwards? I forgot how grief makes my wrists weak.

In the show, much was made of prayer and redemption and I wonder if it's all easier if one has a god one can turn to.

listening to: nick cave. so much nick cave.

2:28 p.m. - 2017-03-09