After the reading last night at Gravy, I walked to my car to find one of the back windows smashed. The doors were still locked, nothing was missing, and the alarm, if it kicked off, was certainly not loud enough that we could have heard it across the street.
As I started to clean the glass shards out of my car, I thought about the senselessness of the exercise–destroying someone’s window for the fun of it. It reminded me of Graham Greene’s ‘The Destructors,’ which I read in my first or second year of college. In the story, a band of street urchins set about tearing a house down, for no reason but that they want to do something fun, something different.
“You hate him a lot?” Blackie asked.
“Of course I don’t hate him,” T. said. “There’d be no fun if I hated him.” The last burning note illuminated his brooding face. “All this hate and love,” he said, “it’s soft, it’s hooey. There’s only things, Blackie,” and he looked round the room crowded with the unfamiliar shadows of half things, broken things, former things.’
For the teenagers, destruction was “after all, a form of creation.”
I suppose this is a long way of saying: I’m off to a late start this morning, so posting will be light.