Just for the record murders occur in all stratas of society. Remember the Beverly Hills music recording executive who, along with his wife, father and mother of two boys, killers, who shot- gunned their parents to death?
The murder in my building occurred on our, same floor. We'd heard the couple's heated arguments through the walls at both ends of our appartment. The building manager has since told me he heard the midnight and beyond verbal fighting but like me took it to be no different from the previous years of similar quarrels. When he heard a sound he could no longer ignore and went to investigate, the male, hysterical,told him his girl friend had killed herself. Like me, the building manager didn't believe him. The police arrived eight minutes later. She'd been killed with a shot gun. The man of course was arrested. My wife tells me she heard the woman say over and over "You f----d me up!" over and over and over.
Rumor has it that he was gang-conned into getting into drug-debt to his own gang, and threatened with death if he didn't pay up, he panicked and tried to extort money from his girl friend who'd kept him in cars and money for years.
A much larger apartment is opening up soon in this same building, an apartment with large spaces and many unobstructed windows. The location and gorgeous thousands of trees nearby in one of the most beautiful, most sophisticated cities in the world more than compensate for the negatives: besides,the police are very active here, patrolling non-stop. The most dangerous person in our lives is very often not the person next door, or down the street, of even on the highway, but the one who shares our bed and table. Funny how this simple truth is so persistently down-peddled.
Barry
I don't want to scare you to death......ha ha ha ha.....but, truth will out....
Function:noun Pronunciation: k&-'thär-s&s Inflected Form(s):pluralca·thar·ses /-"sez/ Etymology: New Latin, from Greek katharsis, from kathairein to cleanse, purge, from katharos 1:PURGATION 2 a: purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art b: a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension 3: elimination of a complex by bringing it to consciousness and affording it expression
Murder on stage has been popular entertainment for about 2600 years give or take a century. Murder off-stage, of course, is another story, with many guises and always a hideous waste of everything worthwhile, leaving aside warfare which hopefully is less frequently murder than it has been through history.
On stage one of the most moving murders, I like to imagine, was a production of Othello with Paul Robeson playing the Moor.** His operatic voice makes it easy for me to imagine him in the role.
( ** He played the role on Broadway; Uta Hagen played opposite him as Desdemona.)
There has been a real life murder in the apartment building in which we live, all six of us. I casually know the victim, and the killer. Both are African American. Only a few days ago I found the killer leaning against my car. At that time I thought of him as dangerous, but not murderous. I knew he was a drug addict, often apparently sober. I stopped dead in my tracks. "Wat's you lookin' at Nigger?" he asked. I was used to his belligerent tone, but wary anyway. In his spiel of some kind of cover up he must have called me a "Nigger" ten times. I was curiously flattered. That he found we had ANYTHING in common was kinda nice. He's a magnificent looking, tall figure of a man with a commanding voice, cheapened by using it too often and for nothing. I said, "Well, you are leaning against my car.... " and by then he was slowly walking away still muttering "Nigger" over and over.
A few days earlier I'd waited while his Black girl friend moved their (his, but probably with her money) car so I could exit to the street. This was the same young woman who had, perhaps a year ago, asked me to call 911 as he was threatening her with a knife. I did so. That time he hastily exited the premises apparently not holding anything against me. But this time he screamed at her for moving the car so I could squeeze by en route to the street, as if she had humiliated him by accomodating me so meekly. She was by temperament timid, sweet, and obedient. She could, however, on occasion be fiery, loud, and operatic just like her crazed boyfriend. Many times we had heard their domestic arguments carried on at the top of their lungs night and day.
He was always driving different cars, the most recent a Mazda sportscar, and two years ago he had stashed in the building parking lot, where more than likely he paid no rent, two 40 year old Cadillac sedans each yards long; his fantasy maybe was to recondition them, ha ha ha. The police ordered them removed. The cars, not the humans.
Last night long after midnight we could hear them in angry, operatic high dudgeon. I expected the building manager to step in. He did not. While it was still dark I went early to retrieve my recently-missing, morning LA Times. Shockingly I found the driveway taped off with yellow 'crime scene' tape. In the street light the yellow looked white which disarmed me; yellow tape would have stopped me in my tracks. I went downstairs and crossed the driveway curious about a huge coil of 'white' tape on the low wall separating us from the house next door. "That's ours" said a soft-spoken, blonde police woman. She was standing with three other police officers, two males and another woman. I meekly went back upstairs.
We knew something really bad had happened but I simply assumed that #1 "Nigger" had beat up his girlfriend. No surprise there I told myself.
Toward midday I planned to go swimming and wondered if I'd be confined to the building while an investigation continued. I asked anyway. I was given a green light. Almost immediately I came back to the police car window and asked without preamble, "Is it drugs, or murder?" He replied "Murder; well, she's dead," and motioned toward their upstairs apartment. That's what I'd finally deduced by the fact there were still so many patrol cars present. "No surprise there," I said. Oops, he then asked me if I would give a statement. I said I would, and I did.
Three hours later when I returned from swimming my son told me that she had shot herself through the mouth. Neither my son, nor myself, and apparently not the police, believed it was suicide.
Time will unfold the facts no doubt. I cannot explain my disappointment that he has apparently tried to not only kill, but pull a fast one. I hope he hangs. Mind you, that's just one nigger to another Nigger.
Barry
(To be continued, I guess....)
((I swam 1,700 meters and felt like a million...))
(((My wife is somewhat po'd that I spoke to the police at all.)))
With forefinger and thumb I can again encircle my wife Elsa's ankle. Haven't been able to do that for quite some months. Things are lookin' up. Did I tell you how the baby, Mark Andrew, got home? He'd stayed at the hospital for a couple of days to make sure his mild jaundice condition improved. Alone, I took him home two or three miles away while baby lay on the floor on the front passenger side of the van (? Mazda, seats 6, of necessity now) bundled up and cushioned: safest by far no matter what the police say. Of course speed never above about 35 mph. Well, I still haven't mastered the Graco infant car seat, so I improvized. Lacking a baby car seat, a kind doctor carried the baby in the elevator from the fifth floor, then to the street exit across from Burger King where I was parked. From then on I took over, waving goodbye. Mark slept the whole time. This boy is easy to get along with: co-operates, smiles all the time, seems ready for speech at any moment. His eyes are brown but there's green in there too. Kidding around we call him the "White Guy gringo." But that's private. His hair isn't black as it seemed at first: it's dark brown. His skin is white. Elsa's father was a,'white guy Spaniard from Spain.' He died 30 years ago.
The hospital called this morning to get a report on our experience of the staff and conditions. Elsa was still asleep so I took the phone blubbered my wild enthusiasm for their kindness, efficiency, skill, and tact. I think the caller might have been blubbering too at the end. Celebration of life.
Mark Andrew is a beaultiful boy, aged one day. He was born this morning. Within hours he was breastfeeding and later sleeping happily. He has his mother's features. He's vigorous, smart, and blessed with remarkable powers of concentration. I took lots of pictures and will probably email rather than post. The hospital staff was flawless and attended to nuts and bolts considerations such as guarding the safety of the baby round the clock. Collectively we seem still slow to get how sick has become the world we inhabit so casually. In my case I began Online using my real name, a hideous mistake in judgment about the sanity of modern man.
I fear too openly celebrating lest I incite violence against my family, violence that so far has been confined to hideous verbal spewing of insults and defamations. It's still a lotal mystery to me why AOL fails to act. Did you know that AOL has employees monitoring AOL membership messages and postings from the following countries in order to save money?:
South Africa
Israel
The Philippines
India
Argentina
So, it was no surprise to me the The Los Angeles Times makes being a subscriber full of headaches by having some of their bookkeeping done cheaply in Manila, the Philippines. Both the LA Times, and AOL are about to go down the hopper. Poor management; empowering employees with whopping great character flaws. It's a wicked game they play. One day the truth will OUT.
Four eggs, three chicks. All five, siblings plus hen and 'rooster,' tweet tweeting merrily. Daily the chicks sound louder and ever-more insistent. I love the way the parents put up with my changing their bath water and so on, and, being unable to stop from peeking briefly so as to not annoy,disturb, or bother.
Either late tonight, or early tomorrow morning Mark Andrew will be launched au naturale (naturellement) at a nearby hospital. Mother Elsa is still at home, fussing with cooking stuff for her four men at home lest they starve. (Gimme a break, ha ha ha.)
Cameras loaded. Have to take a shower though. Prayers by you would be vastly appreciated.
