train event II

After my husband picked me up at the station last night, I told him about what happened yesterday. He was interested, in that half-eeeww kind of way, about how it all occurred. But when I mentioned that I had taken a few pictures, he recoiled and said “Oh, you didn’t!” with such vehemence that I couldn’t say a word for the rest of the ride home.

I have been wondering about it ever since. Was it so callous to take pictures of the police and station staff as they went about their work, measuring and writing notes? Two of them had clipboards, on which they scribbled names and details from the witnesses. On one of those, the man had sketched in the position of the body (lengthwise along the track). It all seemed so mundane, so business-as-usual that I didn’t feel that I was doing anything very awful.

Or, perhaps not so awful. The hidden journalist in me (I don't get to do this much at my translated news rewriting job) feels an obligation to report everything as I see it, as it is happening, even when I have no place to publish that information. That is why I started this blog yesterday, I guess. A way to get all these thoughts out of my head and out into the Borg.

But as the Cate-Blanchett Dylan says in the film "I'm Not There" -- "Who cares what I think?"