Between blotch and blok

... by reliving the immediate, recorded.

Skimming through the NY Times emailed headlines (the ravens' selection of emailed news bulletins, and other requested inputs to the Inbox is the potential subject for an entirely separate LJ entry) this morning, in a fug so bad that we switched on the CD player and didn't notice for the space of three entire tracks that Simon and Garfunkel were reenacting The Sounds of Silence with remarkable accuracy (oh, for the mind-reading hi-fi that switches from the tuner to the CD when we insert a new CD or press play; or maybe not, we'd object to it arrogantly anticipating our intentions, and interfering), we hit this From Excitement to Horror: Columbia's Last Flight Online. And wept. Over a week late.

Why? We watched the broadcast pictures and felt sorrow, but also the detached awestruck appreciation of the beauty of the sight of the break up of the shuttle across a blazing blue sky (have to say, that was also our reaction to the sight of each of the Twin Towers coming down: think part of this is due to the fact that these appalling visions of destruction played out against the sky, uninterrupted, uncluttered by the "distractions" on the ground that are a reminder that people are involved). Listened to the ensuing reporting and felt the same sorrow. But reading the commentary and reaction, live then, historic record now, hits harder. It's not that the pictures had no impact: in the case of both the shuttle and the WTC the images are burned in, we guess permanently. It's certainly not that we believe or trust what we read more than what we see or hear broadcast: we don't. Too many books, too much reading, for too many years means that our emotional responses are tuned to text in a different way.

And the time lag? We remember a children's book from years back about a tiger (or maybe a lion, a big cat anyway) with a tail so long he would bite the tip of it before going to sleep and the time for the impulse to reach his brain was long enough for a decent nap. Well, that's us. Takes a while for things to travel along our emotional tail.