I was just puttering around in my condo and I heard from the TV (CNN) the single most remarkable thing that I have ever heard:
Eight armed men attacked a wedding in Turkey, killing forty-four people. Police suspect a jilted ex-boyfriend of taking revenge.
Weird attacks with surface similarities to this one are commonplace these days, it’s true. The usual rationalizations have a reality beyond the personal or local. This one, though, seems to hang on a tiny thread of someone’s failed attempt at reason. BBC reports that, “there seems to have been a long running feud between the families.”
A jilted boyfriend? (With the help of seven friends?) A family feud? (With forty-four people dead in one attack?)
Something about the Twenty-First Century is making people think that their own little grievances are somehow supremely important; that their own little frustrations are somehow cosmically meaningful; that their own little personal narrative requires resolution; that their own little community must rule the world; whatever.
What is this shit? You tell me. Something about encroaching old age has driven me out of the speculation market.