Breadcrumb #588
AMANDA CLAIRE BUCKLEY
There’s blood on the news, but damn if they show it. At this hour? Even the veins pinking the whites of the anchors’ eyes are censored. It’s unreasonable. We have a 24-hour news cycle and yet no one’s ever bloodshot. No ruddy noses from winter winds. No blotched cheek from greenroom booze. If there’s blood on the news, it’s more of a suggestion. Innuendo. A wink before a duck behind the curtain. An irritating fade-to-black. They keep the blood behind the lens, beneath the foundation, shrouded in the teleprompter’s parentheticals.
No, you can’t show blood on the news unless it’s dried or reenacted. Unless it’s blue.
The FCC has rules. The stations follow them.
At any hour, someone is eating dinner. At any hour, there are children.
I’ve got a little belly where a baby is growing like a leech and my computer sits on top of it. My oven is preheating. I’m watching press briefings on CNN while searching Twitter for spin. I’m not watching CNN by choice. I mean, yes, I chose CNN, but only because earlier in October there was a primary debate on the channel. I swiped a friend’s cable password so I could watch. Since then, it’s just been what’s on and I’ve had more time on my hands than I’m used to so—I don’t know—I’ve been glued to it. Studying it. Binging it—as much as someone can binge something cyclical, something limitless, something too broad to fit in one open mouth.
It’s something to do. Something to pass the time. Something to balance other tasks with.
The news and the reaction to it seem to happen simultaneously. A commentary to the commentary follows each story and then the third-stage analysis breaks back into a new life, another headline. It’s Gatsby-esque: everything beats against the current, borne back ceaseless into a cannibalistic past. Times don’t change much, but my goodness these times are electric.
Everyone wants my attention. Everyone is lying.
My waitressing job has started cutting my hours. No more weekends. I’m stuck with the Tuesday night shift, and I feel useless.
I’m making eggplant parmesan. I’ve become a vegetarian since the whole baby thing. Look, I’m not sold on the choice. I miss meat, miss the tendons and the sinews. Meat is something I’ve ingested my whole life. But something about this leech in me—it’s got me thinking. Something about this unborn shrimp eating another living creature feels premature. Morally wrong. A child shouldn’t have to consume death before it’s alive.
I don’t know where I got that idea from, but I can’t let it go.
They say—that is recipes from the internet say—to salt the slices of eggplant before you cook them, so the flesh holds up in the oil, in the pan, and then in the oven.
I did not think ahead enough to salt my eggplant.
I’m not even sure I own an oven-safe dish. I’m more of a microwaver, honestly.
Everything seems to happen simultaneously.
I have a small TV from Target. I bought it back when I was working the weekend shift. I’ve set it up on my kitchen table so I can watch CNN while I cook. By cook I mean wait. My oven is still preheating. I’ve only recently learned that increasing the temperature doesn’t lessen the cooking time. It just burns the food. Burning is different than cooking. Who knew?
I know I could do better. I try to do better.
When my friends cook with me, they think ahead. They salt the eggplant. When they salt the eggplant, I can see, if I’m patient, the water in the flesh rise to the top of the pale green like little mirrored beads. Pearls.
“I’ve got a little belly where a baby is growing like a leech and my computer sits on top of it.”
There’s blood on the news, but instead of blood they say “assault.”
FCC rules imply that explicit details to violent and sexual crimes are okay to air only if they are integral to reporting the story justly. For instance, it was deemed just to report on the minutia of Jeffrey Dahmer’s murders because the method of violence was sensational. Brett Kavanaugh’s hearing was sensationall. Bill and Monica were sensational. So were CK and Cosby. Weinstein. We heard all of the details. The kinks, the stains. Who owns a stain? Is all evidence public property?
When people say “sensational,” they mean “newsworthy.” When they say “newsworthy” they mean “earth shattering.” When they say “earth shattering” they mean “something we haven’t heard before.”
For the most part, the anchors stick with “assault.” It’s so wide.
On the news, everyone repeats themselves and hopes you don’t notice.
When they say “assault” on the news, they can mean so many things.
They shuffle their papers in their hands and move on.
It’s kind of the same as how when I say I “hooked up” with someone I want to mean what you think I mean and nothing else. It’s a word with a funhouse definition—different depending on where you stand, who you are. I say “hooked up” when I want you to fill in the gaps with your desired color of paint. I want you to use broad strokes and easy shapes. I say “hooked up” when I’d rather not say I was paralyzed by a hand on my thigh. I say “hooked up” when it was little more than a kiss. I say “hooked up” when I’d rather not say I was asked three times before I removed my shirt. I say “hooked up” when I’d rather not say I said stop too soon–too late. I say “hooked” up when I got on my knees willingly, when I got on my knees unwillingly. I say “hooked up” when I’d rather not say anything at all, when I wish I could say more.
I don’t like appearing naïve. It’s nice to imply expertise. That’s how you get the good sections. That’s how you get the weekend hours.
I wish I knew how to cook. Really cook. Not burn. Cook.
“Hooked up” could be a kind of “sex,” but “sex” can be a kind of “assault.”
I don’t like how thin the line between the two is.
I don’t know why we can’t keep the two apart. I can’t keep the two apart.
Sometimes there’s both “assault” and “rape” on the news. The news depicts both the way they depict blood which is to say they’re not depicted at all but suggested. Saying the word “rape” on the news is like taking a train cross-country with the windows blacked out: it’s a far way to travel–from here to there, safe to unsafe–still, the landscape of the nation remains a mystery. Saying the word “rape” tells you enough without telling you which states the train passed through.
Saying “harassed” on the news is like saying “assault” on the news is like saying “rape” on the news is like saying “neutralized.” I heard the word “neutralized” on CNN the other day when, I think, they meant “stoned.”
I asked a friend if they’ve heard of the Kurds. My friend was visiting during the October debates and we were salting the eggplant because they had thought ahead. They brought an oven-safe dish. They tried to teach me how to make a meal without touching the microwave. I hovered in the corner near the dustpan and broom. They hadn’t heard of the Kurds. Neither had I. Not until CNN told me I ought to know about them. Not knowing made me feel small.
What else in the world do I not know? What do I need to know? I check the headlines. I follow the money. What knowledge is critical to my safety? What streets should I avoid? What else am I forgetting?
Hevrin Khalaf. That was the woman. I didn’t know a single thing about her until she died. Until she was “neutralized.” I hope people know about me before I die, but it’s unlikely anyone will ever know about me at all.
I am disappointed in myself.
I have too much time on my hands.
I wipe my hands on my jeans instead of using a hand towel.
I miss the rush of Saturdays.
Someone on the news keeps saying “neutralized” when they mean “stoned” when they mean “war crime.” They are only quoting a statement. I know they can’t say what they really mean. Not on the news. Not on CNN. Not on Fox. Not on MSNBC.
I don’t know what I look like when other people stare at me.
In the grocery store. On the subway. Do they see that I’m growing? Am I overgrown?
I don’t know what a “war crime” looks like. I don’t know if I’ve ever lived through one.
Where I’m from, there’s only traffic. Endless traffic. Honestly, I think, sometimes, traffic might be the worst thing I’ve lived through.
Does a “stoning” break through the blacked-out windows of the train?
The steam from the pot of boiling water on the stove—the water for the pasta for the eggplant parmesan—fogs the mirrors in the bathroom of my apartment. My entire apartment changes when I cook. Everything gets smaller. The walls get closer together. The days start to feel repetitive. Everything shrinks until I can’t tell one room from the other.
I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a TV. I stack headlines between the doorframes of my house. I line them up like cars stuck, bumper to bumper, in rush hour. If something “earth shattering” happens, I will know it occurred.
I put my hands on either side of my hips. My hips have not really grown wider despite my gut gaining depth. I move my hands forward, holding steady as not to change the distance between them. I put my hands against the stove and say to myself, “This is how big you are.” I compare myself to the stove. I compare myself to how I think I look. I say, “This is how big you are compared to the stove.”
On the news, they tell me how big the stove is in relation to other stoves.
I want to get a true sense of the space I take up. What is the accurate and just size of my life?
I wear the same coat no matter how big I am. No matter how pregnant I get, the days are the same length.
I think through the portions of my meal thoughtfully. Not too little. Not too much.
Everywhere there are period commercials with the blue stuff.
On sitcoms (have you noticed?) babies are born goo-less.