Lid EMBA | Decibelia | Hearsay | Non-Fiction | Telezygote |
||
|
Lid EMBA is Sean Moore. The structures are obsessively detailed, not carelessly indeterminate. Organic impossibles. † ‡ ÷ §† ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § Cocaine ruins the sunrise. |
On the January night in 1978 that Ted Bundy slipped into the Chi Omega house in Tallahassee, FL, I was asleep across the street in the Broward Hall Dormitory of Florida State University. All of us were awakened the next morning, assembled groggy in the hall, and told that two sisters of the sorority had been murdered and two acutely injured. Outside there were teams of cops and examiners searching through hedges and picking through grass and foot trails. Later I read in the paper that a 5th woman had been savagely beaten just blocks away and minutes after the Chi Omega attack. I saw her photo and recognized her. I used to see her in the cafeteria. She was a dance major. She was beaten to the point of permanent deafness and equilibrium disruption. She would never dance again. Branches and firewood were used in all of the attacks. Bits of bloody tree bark, forensic breadcrumbs, lodged in my images. Tallahassee was so far from the center of the universe that it could've been a tic on a stray dog's ass wandering in an abandoned landfill, but for a few months the city was jumping with press, fear, paranoia, and a spike in gun sales. Walking across campus at night, THC nudging the dread, was always an exercise in steering around shadows and neck swiveling. Until July '78 when Bundy was caught and the trial was moved to Miami. Then Tallahassee returned to starched and crushingly agrarian oblivion. In retrospect, one of the most horrifying components of the murders and my own proximity to them was the unnerving connection that we were all sleeping: the victims, the people in the next rooms who heard nothing, us dumbass college kids in our overnight camp beds, practically the entire city. Except for Bundy. |
|
† ‡ ÷ §† ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † ÷ ‡ † |
||
Was he an only son? If so, any ancestral legacy he may have augmented was now forever lost, reduced to micro particles dispersed in the congealed blood that pillowed his broken skull. He was found lying on his bunk in the barracks of the base where he was stationed in Iraq. His M9 pistol minus one bullet, a suicide note on his desk describing the progress of his fatal disenchantment with the duty he'd volunteered for. Before Iraq he was a West Point grad, top of his class. He took an extended leave to pursue a Masters in military ethics. Had family, a wife, kids, all overseen by an ascetic demeanor and sense of honor as impenetrable as the hard gaze of a police dog when its jaws clamp down on bone. After classes and before going home, lest he get too soft, he would fill a backpack with bricks until it was unnaturally bulky, sling it on his powerful frame and run the roads encircling the campus. Cars and people would stare and smirk at the sight of this slow motion Olympian huffing up and down hills in 95-degree heat, his speed a near crawl and his feet rising and falling maybe 2 inches above the ground. After getting his degree he felt compelled to leave family and country to train Iraqi security forces. It wasn't what he expected, or maybe it was much, much worse than he ever imagined. His emails home were initially positive, but gradually became more distressed as they recounted the corruption and blasé debasement he encountered in all quarters. He complained to his superiors without resolution. Ignored. A pariah. I can only suppose that the world's refusal to conduct itself in a principled and noble manner finally overcame his antique and incongruous convictions. And he surrendered to his enemies. |
My first recording was of the family dog being hit by a car. An accidental preservation of an accident. I was playing with friends in someone's front yard, our neighborhood being one of the few in a sprawling Floridian network of lakes; precipitous, winding two-lane roads with dead-end street tributaries (paved and dirt); and dense woods of mossed cypress. The yard abutted one of those roads. Paddy, my mangy and eternally happy mutt, was obstinately chasing cars as they zoomed by, something me and my friends would probably have done as well had we been dogs. We had a portable cassette recorder, an exotic yet commonplace technology in those days, and happened to be recording some silliness when we heard the crash. We turned heads sharply to the street. Paddy's matted, tangled fur was bloodied and torn, and a shiny, sporty, colorless car sat cockeyed. I ran out to the road, Paddy's head lifting as he recognized me. He tried to stand and walk, probably in shock, but instead fell and dragged himself with his paws. His back legs were broken. Someone told my dad, he came and sped Paddy away in the backseat. We played the tape back, hearing our chatter, a few honks, the grind of skidding tires, and a smash tinted with glass shatters. That afternoon I walked around the neighborhood playing the recording for anyone who would listen, including my mother. I was fascinated by the petrified horror. Paddy died that night at the vet's, an event preceded by the driver coming to our home to ask my dad to pay for his busted headlights. Only much later, in the stillness of my bed, did I cry. |
|
† ‡ ÷ §† ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † ÷ ‡ † |
||
| Doctor's Orders (Dropsophila): There are relatively few virgin mutant females available to start the crosses. Therefore, you should practice anesthetizing and sexing the wild type cultures first and work with virgin females after you have gained some experience. When examining flies under the dissecting microscope, use the upper lamp for illumination only! The bottom lamp will cook your flies. There is a fine line between etherizing the flies too long and killing them, and too short and having them wake up before you are ready. It is better to err on the side of too short because you can always use the re-etherizers (petrie plate lid with a wad of cotton taped inside) to knock them out again, although this process is annoying because it wastes so much time. Dead flies develop "angel wings" (the wings stick up from the backs rather than lying flat), which makes them hard to roll over and observe (in addition to making further crosses impossible if that is what you want!). Ether is one of the three most flammable and explosive common laboratory reagents! Do not make any spark or flame in the vicinity of the etherizers and keep the stock bottle in the fume hood. When you put anesthetized flies into a new vial, place the vial on its side during and immediately after the time when you add the flies. If you drop the anesthetized flies straight into the medium they will either drown or get stuck in the medium. | ||
† ‡ ÷ §† ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † † ‡ ÷ § § ÷ ‡ † ÷ ‡ † |
||
Copyright
© 2012 Lid Emba |
||