A Deep Breath (#21)

I struggled with selecting an image for tonight's post.
My initial thoughts leaned toward "disturbing". Like "Zdzisław Beksiński" disturbing.
That went too far.
So, I decided on "harsh truth delivered in a funny way".
If you have seen Beksiński's artwork, you are probably glad I did.

Lately, I've been taking a lot of deep breaths on this blog. Since the beginning of January. Maybe it's just the post-holiday doldrums. Like a long sigh. Next weekend may break the spell. Because I will be engaged in an experience that will require all my attention, there will be no blogging. It may be the jolt I need in order to transform my writing. That is all I will share about the event at this time. 

Meanwhile, I will focus on tonight's post. This past week, I traded in reading my book for viewing documentaries. The history of Vatican II will have to wait. Last Sunday's foray into one family's living in the Alaskan wilderness sent me down a new path. That's the way my mind works. Watching this couple disassemble nearly twenty years of trials, triumphs, and tragedies, along with the wooden structures they created together, was beautiful and inspiring. It reminded me of how much I enjoy documentaries about nature. So, I followed up Rewilding Kernwood with Arctic Daughter, the life of the mother from the first documentary I saw. There is a third movie, Arctic Son. Unfortunately, that one was not free with Prime; therefore, it will have to wait. By Monday night, I caught a film about the mass migration of animals through the Brooks Range in Alaska. Unfortunately, I went to bed two-thirds of the way through, and have not been able to find it since, in order to finish it. However, on Tuesday night, I discovered the trilogy, Wild North, by Scandanavian photographers. Wrapped that series up by early Saturday night.

A craving for documentaries came over me, and ones about nature were not enough. An entire week of these films stirred up memories of childhood. When I used to devour entire series about Vietnam and World War II. Sure enough, my streaming services delivered. It took some time, but I found one on the Second World War. I gave up after the first few minutes. The footage was reconstructed with cheesy special effects. That inspired me to find a documentary with actual footage from the time period. It took another stretch of time searching, before  I found it. It was from the History channel, which made me wince (a topic for another day--a channel of so much squandered potential). But I put aside my bias, when I learned that the content contained never-before-released home movies from that era. And for over an hour, I was held captivated by what I saw.

And thoroughly disgusted. At least three times I teared up. Several times I paused it, and walked about my bedroom angry. I do that sort of thing when I become emotional. But turning it off was not an option. My childhood is filled with graphic footage from war. That includes, during my preteen years, watching Soviet footage of concentration camps, void of music, or commentary. I could handle it. Just not silently, or without emotion. And so I endured a tumultuous journey through various eye witnesses of Europe's worst civil war.

While I searched for WWII content, I came across I Am Not Your Negro. It is a film about James Baldwin, and I have been meaning to watch it for some time. Besides movies about warfare, I also viewed films about the Civil Rights Movement. By the time I entered high school, I was exposed to the beatings and marches, lynching and riots; the sight of a little girl being attacked by crowds of adults; and the face of a young boy in a coffin, murdered by two adults for something he never did. However, I settled on the History Channel's The Third Reich. James Baldwin would have to wait.

Once again, my life is full of coincidences. On the same day I watched amateur video from German soldiers recording their harassment and murder of civilians, authorities released body cam footage of Tyre Nichols' death. As I saw soldiers march naked people towards open graves where they lined them up and shot them dead, the world witnessed a group of police surround a man and beat him to death.

History does not repeat itself. But some humans seem to wish it would.