I went with my tough-guy boots and my outlaw dreams.

I went because it’s called Murder City, because it’s so extreme, a war zone without any rules.  I wanted to see how people live; I was attracted to the lawlessness.  I love Mexico.  It was a test.

A lot of terrible things have happened in Juarez.  One of them was the shooting death of a 15-year-old boy named Sergio Adrian who was killed by a U.S. border patrol agent.  Sergio was in Mexico when the bullet pierced his skull; the agent was in the U.S.  U.S. agents say Sergio was throwing rocks.  The bullet hit him right between the eyes.

He died in a dry tributary of the Rio Grande.  There’s an invisible line down the middle of the concrete waterway, which delineates the border.  Sergio was on one side, the agent on the other.  I stood where Sergio was killed and read the graffiti: Che Guevara’s face surrounded by words of outrage and pledges of revenge.

There aren’t any border walls in Juarez.   We Americans are welcomed.  But in El Paso there are two and sometime three fences, concertina wire, and of course the Rio Grande.  The border is swarming with patrol vehicles.  It’s very difficult for a Mexican to come across illegally, especially in the area where Sergio was killed.

I drove through the streets of Juarez up into the hills where Sergio’s mother lives.  It is a poor neighborhood; pallet shacks with scrap-metal roofs and bootlegged electricity.   Most places don’t have running water.  I listened as a mother told of losing her child and then watched as the U.S. government vilified her precious boy.  They claimed he was running drugs.  They said he was a coyote.  I stood in Sergio’s tiny room and saw the religious icons and the boy-like drawings he made of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Sergio’s family lives in extreme poverty.  They have no authority or influence; their voice is not heard.  Sergio’s death is an inconvenience, a thorn in the side of U.S. policy makers.  The Mexican government seems to have forgotten the incident.  The officer who shot Sergio is still on duty.

There is nothing romantic about life in Juarez.  It is a dangerous city where the poor have few options.  As I walked back across the bridge to El Paso a crippled man held out his beggars cup.  His leg was withered and black with gangrene.  His only hope of survival is to cut off the damaged limb.  I doubt he will get the help he needs.

Actual photo of me as a shrew

Sometimes I travel with family or friends but often I’m on my own.  I know that this wanderlust is genetic, part of my physiological make-up, unalterable and fixed.  I was born to adventurous parents, a descendant of migrant cultures from past generations.  (I’m actually jealous of the pioneers; I long to travel unexplored territory in a covered wagon or on horseback or by dugout canoe)

My need to roam is chronic but manageable.  Sometimes jumping in the car and driving for a day or two will sooth my savage beast and I’ll return home filled with peace and gratitude.  Movement, change of scene, talking to strangers, sleeping under the stars or climbing a mountain peak, always calms me.  My trips don’t have to involve an airplane and a foreign language.  All I have to do is get out in the world, change my perspective, step outside of my life and insert myself into different environments, watch myself react in alien situations, and I am renewed.   Who am I?  Certainly not the person I was two days ago.  (Thank goodness because she was so boring.)

Today I’m feeling a sense of peace and calm because my son and I just returned from a fantastic trip to the Solomon Islands.  It is my new favorite country.  (I often return from traveling to an unfamiliar place and declare it my new favorite.  My most favorite list is extensive.)  It takes a long time to get to there.  For us it was two days of travel and a forced layover in Fiji.   We stepped off the plane into the hot, rich tropical air of Honiara on the island of Guadalcanal, and walked across the tarmac to the terminal.  I was surprised by the excellent paintings that line the walls of the baggage calm area, scene after scene of warriors with thick bone-rings piercing their noses, spears and shields.   Here the headhunting history is celebrated and I was thrilled by the images.  Of course I couldn’t find my camera at the airport so there are no photos of the art.  Trust me, the work is impressive.

With over 1,000 islands, most of them uninhabited and untouched by any sort of development, the Solomon Islands is a country of spectacular beauty.  We spent one night in Honiara then took a tiny plane to Gizo, which is in the Western Province.  From the airstrip we jumped on a boat to Sanbis Resort on the island of Mbabanga.

The resort consists of six basic cabins with solar powered ceiling fans and mosquito nets (malaria is an issue).  They grow a lot of their own food and rely on local fishermen for lunches and dinners.

The place is clean and beautiful, there is running water, and the food is outstanding.

The primary reason for our trip was the scuba diving and we were the only guests for most of our weeklong visit.  It was strange and awesome to be there alone.   The water temperature varied between 86 and 90 degrees and the visibility was outstanding.  The reefs are healthy with a huge variety of corals, tons of fish, and both Japanese and American WWII wrecks.  We did three dives a day and spent surface time either fishing from the boat or lounging on isolated beaches.

Fishermen paddled by in dugout canoes.  I’m enthusiastic and like to wave at all people in boats.  They always wave back.

The market at the nearby town of Gizo was fantastic.  I was so impressed by the abundant array of fruits and vegetables.   The people are friendly and welcoming.  And proud.  I felt honored to walk the streets of Gizo.

We visited a sacred burial site where dozens of skulls and bones were displayed on altars.   It was fantastic.  The Solomon Islands really were the epicenter of headhunters.   Several of my novels have touched on cannibalism and tribal ritual.  Skull imagery is a big part of my visual alphabet (see homepage of my website).   I can’t get enough.

But when I stood in front of the skull altar I realized that while I may play at understanding primal instinct and tribal law, the truth is I have no idea what I’m talking about.   There is a power to that part of the world and I don’t understand it.  But I can feel it and I want to understand.  So I’m going back.

After seven days on Mbabanga we climbed aboard this little plane and headed home.  I’ve got a ticket to Papua New Guinea for February.  I’m going up to the Highlands where the Huli tribes live to see what there is to see.  Maybe I’ll figure something out.  I’m calm and happy.  The next trip is just around the corner.

Recently there has been renewed interest in turning Chemical Pink into a movie, which is of course a thrilling prospect for me.  I have been meeting with producers and directors.  I find myself once again discussing the fascinating world of competitive body modification and realize that lot has changed; Bodybuilding has evolved.  By the late eighties/early nineties, the pioneer women of the sport had trained hard and through diet and supplementation were able to achieve a level of muscularity never before seen.  They just kept growing.  And growing.  Many of the fans found the increased muscularity offensive and felt they were witnessing the grotesque and unnatural transformation of women into men.  The audience started to turn away from the sport.   The sponsors panicked. Something had to be done.  Fitness Competition was born which allowed women to compete with a lot less muscle.   Most of the Fitness girls had some sort of gymnastic skills and thus brought to the sport a new level of athleticism.  And then Figure competition was introduced for those lacking the dexterity of a gymnast.  And then Bikini competition came along for those with a pleasing shape but not much muscle.  Most recently Women’s Physique has been introduced to bridge the gap between Bodybuilding and Fitness/Figure.

Everyone shows up for the contest tan and lean.   99.9% have long, painted fingernails.  Here you will not see any shake or jiggle in the winners circle.

Bodybuilding

Physique

Fitness

Figure

Bikini

They’re like a set of Russian Nesting Dolls, dark brown and oiled, in each in a different colored bikini.

The point of each competition is to display the oneself in a series of positions and hope that the judges will find your form to be the most ideal.  As you work your way down the line from the original Bodybuilder to Bikini, you will see that each group gets a little less muscular, a little softer, until you have the girls in the Bikini category standing on stage with firm physiques but very little actual definition.

All the women are told that their posing suits “must be in good taste” and under no circumstances are they allowed to wear thongs (which are considered bad taste).  Bikini, Figure and Fitness competitors are encouraged to wear jewelry.  Bodybuilders and Women’s Physique are not.

Bikini, Figure and Fitness competitors must wear high heels during the competition.  Bodybuilder and Physique contestants are not allowed to wear shoes and must compete barefoot.

Bodybuilders do the traditional poses, also done by the men, and with closed fists to emphasis the density of muscle.

Physique competitors do the same poses but with the more feminine “open hand” to accentuate the beauty of form.

In all fields there is music and the artful display of body parts.  Fitness girls tend to do back flips and somersaults; a prerequisite for that category seems to be extreme flexibility.

I wonder about my character from Chemical Pink, Aurora Jeanine Johnson.   Aurora was in some ways a lab rat for Charles Worthington.  She suffered terrible consequences in pursuit of her goals.  If I was to write her story today, would it be as extreme?  Are the girls in these new categories subjecting themselves to the same kinds of tortures that she endured?  Is Charles Worthington still holding the reins?  Or have these amazing women taken control of their lives and destinies?  It is a question worth asking.

Read article.

People, I am not writing about YOU.

Just because you notice one of my characters walking around in your alligator pumps with that black Moschino dress you wear all the time does not mean she’s Mary Jo Special.   And even if her manner of speaking sounds familiar, she’s not preaching your message.  Did you notice she has black hair?  Do you have black hair?  No.  You see?  I rest my case.

And sir, if my man uses your kind of toothpaste, is born on your birthday or drives the same year, make and model of your dream car, that does not mean he’s living your life.  Trust me my friend, he’s on a very different path.  (By the way, he went to a much better college than you did, which doesn’t necessarily make him smarter, just different.   And better educated.  Please try to relax. )

Maybe you make little “yum, yum” noises when you eat.  Did you notice that one of my less-likeable people does the same thing?  News flash: doesn’t mean I’m talking about you.   I like you.  You’re not bad.  And I am not saying that all bad people make “yum, yum” noises or that there’s anything wrong with smacking and groaning when you eat.   It’s just something my character does, has nothing to do with you.  Maybe I noticed you do that too but that’s just a coincidence.

Here’s how it works:
For me, going to The Office every morning is like walking into a vast industrial-sized kitchen.  First thing I have to do is turn on the oven/computer and get the place warmed up.  Then I open the refrigerator and see what ingredients I have to work with on that particular day.  I know, you want to stop me right there and ask, “Who stocks the fridge?  Where is the market?”  I see that you’re alarmed because you think you recognize your nose sitting on the shelf next to the glass butter dish.  And you’re pretty sure you spotted a half empty container of Mrs. Hornsby’s messy divorce behind that quart of O.J.  Oh-my-god is that your mother’s face on the milk carton?

Do a slow turn and see that the condiments and spices, the dry goods and canned items, are all composed of bits and pieces of shared moments and thoughts from our collective lives.  How did all this stuff get in my kitchen and what the hell am I going to do with your childhood memories?  As far as you’re concerned, none of this belongs here.  It’s yours, not mine.  And let’s face it; you don’t really like my cooking most of the time.  You were lying when you said you did.

I know I’m not the best chef in the world.  I admit that my successes are few and far between.  I often burn things and have to start over.  None of the recipes are written down so I’m forced to guess at the measurements and many times my concoctions are too salty or not sweet enough, watery or too thick.  But look around.  I’ve spent my whole life collecting these ingredients and they are all I have to work with.  So if I grab a pinch of your first sexual experience or a splash of your last extended depression, if you see that ridiculous fight we had three weeks ago show up in the second chapter of my next book, you’re just going to have to understand that each one of those elements are merely side dishes at my master banquet.  It’s not your tale that I’m trying to narrate, my friend.  These are my characters and I will use every single resource I have to tell their stories.  If you don’t want help with the preparations, I completely understand.  But in that case, I suggest you step away from this writer.  And stay far away.  And even with the distance, I can’t promise that you won’t show up on the page eventually.

If you do decide to stay for dinner, and I hope you will, I suggest you tie on your bib and pull up a chair.  I’m about to take the soufflé out of the oven and I have a feeling it’s going to turn out well but it might be a little messy.  Yes, I too smell your grandmother’s muffins and perhaps that is a piece of Aunt Susan’s scarf.  Let’s hope they add to the overall flavor.  Grab your spoon; it’s time to eat.

To start again, you’ve got to light the fire.  Venture out into the unknown and find the materials you need to burn.  That can be a dangerous job because you never know what lurks in the dark corners.  Even if it’s not dangerous you can pretend that it is which will lend a sense of urgency and importance to the task.  I always carry a weapon or two in the early stages of my novels.

Once you’ve got your raw material, and you’ve dragged it back to your camp, you have to break it down.  Chainsaws are good. Stack the chunks around your pit.  They’re nicely sculptural, aren’t they?  But you’re a writer, not a sculptor.  Get out your axe and your knives.  Cut them up into small, burnable pieces; shave off some kindling.  Your spark is a delicate thing and it’s hard to ignite that flame.  Kindling is key.

Shelter your flame from the wind then light the dry twigs and branches of your idea.  Blow gently.  Now stand back and marvel as your fire ignites and burns on it’s own.  Enjoy the warmth.  Your story is on the way to being told.

Tools of the Trade

You drove fast.  Traffic was always bad and it was a struggle to get there.  You noticed a bumper sticker on a car making a sharp left-hand turn against the red light.  What did it say?  “Dead End.”  What the hell did that mean?  You got to The Office, found a parking spot and went inside.

Every morning for the last couple of years you’ve put on your hair shirt, sat yourself down on pins and needles, and forced your novel to take another two steps forward.  You ignored the ticker tape at the bottom of your mind because you didn’t have time to read that message.

Then last Friday you took a coffee break.  There was a headline on a discarded newspaper in the recycle bin that read, “Surgeon General confirms that over-thinking leads to immobility.” You smiled and thought, “Duh” then dropped your biodegradable cup into the trash and rushed back to work.

Get out of my way, people. You stormed through the door, dropped down into your chair and switched on the noise reduction headphones. I have an important tale to tell.

You, Katie Arnoldi, pushed through each day with an army of self-importance at your back.  Nothing could stop you from telling this story.  You were the only one who could make this happen.  The world was depending on YOU.

But as you sat there last Friday, filled with iced coffee and two carne asada tacos, waiting for the engine to turn over in your subconscious and the story to pick up where you left off, you heard the distinct sound of an aircraft humming around in the back of your head.  It sounded vintage, like a prop plane, the kind that fly up and down the coast streaming banners with important messages.   The sound got louder.  It buzzed around your cerebrum like mosquitoes in a swamp.  You didn’t look up, a sense of desperation driving you to get back to work.   No time for distraction, you had too much to do.   The insect-like buzzing increased and it felt like something was biting you.  One plane, two planes, an entire squadron droning on and on.  There were welts on your arms and legs and the itching was pretty bad.  You kept your fingers on the keyboard but no words sprang forth.  Jets started taking off and landing, missiles fired in the background.   And still you kept your head down and tried to plow forward.  A bomb went off.  The air was suddenly thick with smoke and you began to cough.  It was then that you sat back, wiped your eyes and looked up.

And there, written in letters that took up every square inch of your universe, the sign said:

Your novel sucks.  The voice is flat.  Start over.

Of course you jumped up, drove to Staples and bought a notebook and three-hole paper.  When in doubt, buy supplies.  You rushed home and printed up the book in its entirety and then you spend the holiday weekend investigating.   What you found broke your heart.  It’s true.  You have to start over.

And so now you, Katie Arnoldi, after two years of flogging that dead-horse-of a-novel, are once again on page one.  This time maybe you will have learned your lesson.  Look up once in a while.  Read the damn signs!

Best of luck to you, sweetheart.   We’re rooting for you.  We know you can do it.

THE OFFICE, my office, is the place I go to work.  It offers convenient and excellent adult daycare, where I can drop myself off every morning and pick myself up at the end of the day.

“How did it go today, Katie?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Did you write a lot of pages?”
“No.  But I bought a new pair of cowboy boots online and I didn’t have to pay for shipping.”

I’ve written two (of my three) novels at The Office and am working on a fourth.  I’ve also planned a bunch of vacations, read a hell of a lot of books and written over 10,000 emails.  All in just five short years.

The rules at The Office are strictly enforced.  Sign in and out, note the exact times.  Take your seat and please don’t talk to your neighbor—people are trying to work!  Don’t hit the space key on your computer with too much anger, it distracts.  Put your cell phone on vibrate and keep the volume down on that video you’re watching because we can hear it, even through the noise reduction headphones.

Every day knuckle crackers, door slammers, toe tappers, smelly food eaters, chronic sniffers, and persistent phone call receivers all come together in one 1,300 square foot room and channel their collective energies towards WORK.

The Office.   There is a faux juniper tree in the middle of the room that towers above the circular workstation where seven lucky writers can pull up a chair and sit under the umbrella of spreading branches.  While the needle-like foliage may be plastic, and the bark constituted from some nontoxic but highly complicated man-made composite, the coloration of the tree is quite lifelike and the overall effect surprisingly serene.  The ceiling is a swirling undulation of concave and convex shapes imbedded with a constellation of recessed bulbs and from which drop four globe-like fixtures creating an overhead galaxy of light and energy.  It is a good place to work.

During my first year at The Office I was often distracted by my fellow writers.  There was, for instance, a co-worker who was obsessed with her golden locks.  Every morning she came in, unpacked her computer at the central workstation under the branching tree, sat in her chair, checked her email, then commenced her dedicated search for damaged hair.  Whenever she found a split end, she would bring it up to her mouth and chew it off.  I spent many long hours watching her complicated grooming ritual while waiting for my characters to make their next move.  She eventually got a haircut and then stopped coming in.  I got better at concentrating.

The tabletop fountain that sits by the front door is controlled by a timer and clicks on at 7:55 every morning.  That is something you can count on.  The trickling water sound is comforting.  In the back of the room, on the way to the coffee/tea machine, there are four brown leather (naugahyde?) armchairs with neat swivel trays for note taking.  Each chair is thoughtfully equipped with an extra pillow for low-back support.  This is the rest area, the comfortable spot, the place where I would nap if napping was allowed.  But there is no snoozing at The Office, no “I’ll just lie down on the floor and try and sort out this problem”.  Here, you are not allowed to sleep the day away.  No napping is one of my favorite Office rules.

The woman next to me is on a roll.  She’s been working long hours for a few weeks now.  She’s here when I arrive in the morning and still working when I leave at the end of the day.  She doesn’t look up, never takes calls.  This woman doesn’t stop for coffee, snack, lunch, ice coffee, another snack, or diet coke.  She doesn’t make daily visits to the bookstore across the street.  She’s plugged in and wailing on her keyboard.  How many words a day?  5,000?  Who is this woman?  What is she working on? I check her screen as I lean back in my chair to stretch my arms.  Prose.  Is she writing a novel?  No, couldn’t be.  Novels don’t move that fast.  No way.   Probably some kind of research paper on engineering.  Couldn’t be a novel.  I sit next to her and try and draft off her momentum.  Some days it works, some days I go home early and take a nap.  Then one morning I come in and she’s gone.  Is she sick?  Did she finish her lengthy but incredibly boring academic, scientific, tome?  She doesn’t come back the next day or the next.  She’s gone.  And I miss her.   I miss her energy.  I never did learn her name.

There are fifteen 3’X3’ one-legged tables spaced around the perimeter of the room.  You sit close to your neighbor, close enough to smell what he has decided to have for lunch today.  Close enough to read the writing on that cellophane bag of trail mix that he’s been trying to open for the last twenty minutes.  You’re probably sitting too close to avoid the virus that the sniffling, sneezing neighbor on the right has chosen to bring into our collective workspace.

Do people watch online porn at The Office?  I don’t know.  I’ve never seen any porn here but I’ve written a little.  Yes, it is challenging to write super smutty sex in a room full of strangers.  And it can be embarrassing to write the most heartbreakingly beautiful death/love/reunion scene, with tears running down your cheeks and sobs heaving in your chest, while your neighbor doodles unicorns on her note pad and tries to blow bubbles with her sugarless Trident.

So why not write in a normal office, where I can be completely isolated, alone with my thoughts, and there’s nobody next to me jiggling her knee or biting his fingernails?  Why pay to sit in a room full of strangers?  What is it?  Why do I keep coming back, year after year?  It’s the energy.  There is a power in this room, an amazing collective spirit that comes from this diverse group of very serious people, which is absolutely positive.   There is a force here that drives my work forward, day after day and it’s one of the best things I’ve found as a writer.

THE OFFICE
256 26th Street  #101
Santa Monica, CA 90402
310-917-4455

I smiled, shook your hand, and said, “No, no, dear reader.  I am done with Mexico and drugs, forever.  My exploration of human trafficking and the atrocities that poor migrants like Felix suffer on a daily basis almost did me in.  The savagery of that drug war is too much for me.  Plus in Point Dume I said everything there is to say about marijuana, the death of surf culture, illegal pot farms on public lands, environmental devastation and obsessive love.  Surely another writer will try to pick up where I left off.  I have new fish to fry.  In fact I am going to write a brilliant novel about environmental terrorists.  Guys like Sea Shepherd and Earth First.  It will be my finest book thus far.”

I probably gave you a hug of gratitude because let’s face it I NEVER get stopped on the street and then we carried on, me with my certainty that environmental terrorists held the key to my greatest truth and you with an almost overwhelming excitement at having met me and enormous anticipation for my next novel.

Six months later we were walking down that exact same street.
“Katie, you look much thinner.”
“Thank you.  I’ve been eating a lot of carne asada.  It seems to be making me lean.”
“You must be thrilled that the Japanese stopped whaling in Antarctica”
I look confused.
“Surely you’ve been following Sea Shepherd’s progress.”
“Not really.  I’ve been spending a lot of time in Mexico.”
You look confused.
“I’m picking up the story where Point Dume left off.  I open with Violeta Sanchez.  You remember her, right?  When Felix doesn’t come home she sets out to get some answers.  It’s tough stuff.  I’ve been in Tijuana, Mexicali, Ensenada talking to migrants, visiting shelters, doing recon.  I’m bringing Violeta across the border soon.    The book is called La Rumorosa.”
You tear up.  It’s such a beautiful title, such an important subject.
“But Katie, aren’t those border towns dangerous?”
“Dear reader.”  I take your hand.  “You remember that I am the queen of dangerous research.  For Point Dume I snuck into active cartel-run marijuana grow-sites surrounded by armed guards.   And for The Wentworths I alone infiltrated dangerous and isolated polygamous compounds so as to inform the lives of my characters (also spend a lot of time shopping with the very rich).  I shot testosterone into the buttocks of three hundred pound bodybuilders so I could accurately portray steroid abuse in Chemical Pink.  I put danger in my coffee.”
I sign your autograph book and we part.

And here we are on 4/20 (4-20).  Your eyes are red my friend, why is that?  You tell me that you’re a little stressed.  There is tremendous demand for a Katie Arnoldi action figure and you’re trying to figure out the whole thing.  The paperback of Point Dume is flying off the shelves and there is talk of an emergency second printing even though it just came out.  You’re desperate for news.

Well, you’re in luck because there is a lot of news.  It turns out that several of my other characters have thrown themselves into the middle of La Rumorosa.   When word when out that Violeta was starring in the new novel all my other charters were bitterly jealous.  Charles Worthington from Chemical Pink pointed out that he has made an appearance in all of my books.  He insisted that I would be doing my readers a tremendous disservice if I didn’t continue with his fascinating story.  Then the entire Wentworth crowd organized a revolution that sent me to bed with a debilitating headache, which lasted for days.  Finally we reached an agreement and several members of the Wentworth family will be prominently featured in the new book.  La Rumorosa will be the novel that connects all the dots.

You offer me a brownie.
I decline.
You say that you made them and they’re special.
I point out that I’m watching my weight.
You beg me to finish my next novel as soon as possible.
I make a promise.
We part.

We will meet again soon, my dear friend.  And I thank you for your loyal support.

Of course I was aware that torture has always been a part of the human condition.  Public displays of abuse and execution have consistently been used in the past to deter others from committing similar crimes.  I knew that persecution and sacrifice were practiced in many religions throughout the history of mankind.  But it was through a careful inventory of exactly what we’d done to each other in the past that I was able to revise my outlook for the future.

We are all familiar with the gladiatorial contests of Ancient Rome.  Originally the “games” consisted of two robust warriors who would enter an arena, clad in armor and wielding weapons. Men with names like Spartacus, Priscus and Thrimpus. They would try their damnedest to kill each other for the entertainment of the Emperor and thousands of loyal subjects. Those contests were immensely popular.  But with time the public appetite for blood and gore increased and the sport evolved.  By the end of the Roman Empire the gladiatorial games had devolved into a full-out slaughter.  Starving prisoners were forced into the arena with hungry, savage animals.  The audience watched and cheered as the prisoners were torn to pieces and devoured—all in the name of entertainment.

Caligula liked to hang his victims upside down and slowly saw them in half, starting at the groin.  He found that by hanging them upside down the brain received plenty of blood and was thus able to stay conscious until the saw finally reached a main artery in the abdomen.

During The Middle Ages, Christian leaders used torture to force people to convert.  Those who resisted becoming a good Christian were burned at the stake or drowned or suffocated.

Catholic priests of the Spanish Inquisition favored using pulleys or the rack to literally tear their victims apart.  Heretics were nearly always tortured.

Vlad the Impaler was know for burning, skinning, roasting and boiling his victims then force feeding them to their relatives.  But his torture of choice, his trademark, was impaling his enemies on a sharp, pointed stake.  He would order the victim’s legs to be spread wide and then insert the stake into the rectum and slowly, slowly push it up through the body.  This agonizing form of torture was performed publicly and it could takes hours, even days, before the subject finally expired from blood loss or a punctured heart.

The Bolsheviks are said to have gouged out the eyes and cut off the noses of their enemies.

Stalin, Hitler, Mao.

Idi Amin killed more than 300,000 people in eight years.  He had his second wife murdered by dismemberment then ordered her body parts sewn back together so he could show her off to their children.

Necklacing was popular in South Africa during the anti-apartheid movement of the  1980s and 1990s.  A tire filled with gasoline was forced over the victim’s arms and chest and then set on fire.
The list goes on and on.  The barbaric crimes that we’re seeing in Mexico are nothing new.  In the course of my research I have been reminded that blood lust and cruelty are an ever-present component in the history of mankind.  We have been brutally slaughtering each other right from day one.  Nothing new.  But what I realize is that for every ounce of darkness there is an equal or greater part that is light.  We make art, and music and write great literature.  And I hate to sound like a sap but there is kindness and love.  There is always love.  Sometimes the balance shifts but we endure.  I am still deeply troubled by what is happening in Mexico but it is oddly comforting to see that this kind of present-day brutality has happened over and over again throughout history.  I believe that, with time, the other part of human nature, the good part, will prevail.  We’ve been here before; it’s going to be okay.  And now I’m going to sit down and try to finish Violeta’s story.