If there are no hypothetical cats, and Shrodinger’s thought of cats only comes from particular cats, then in using the memory of them in his thought experiment, he puts them all in the box. Stephen King said in On Writing, if I recall, that one of his characters ran over him in a van that day. Fiction is a scary thing. When an author portrays a man, woman, or child, he is using his memory to form a conglomerate man, woman, or child. Authors say their characters are their babies, well, in a Frankensteinian way, I think that’s true. Then what happens to Frankenstein’s monster, happens in a sense to all the contributing people, which with 6 degrees of separation, includes all of us. This is one reason I’m afraid to write fiction. I will sit in judgment and determine what happens to everyone I know or am consciously ignorant of. I don’t want to be responsible for that.

It’s the reason I’m very selective about what I read. Do I want to go there, do what they are doing, clothed the way they are clothed or unclothed, feel what they are feeling? Mostly not, nowadays. Reading is more intimately connected to me than watching something on the screen for some reason. I still feel violated however when something objectionable happens on the screen. I don’t know why this is less so than with a book. I think it has to do with the one author inside my head rather than a collaborative effort. There’s more safety in groups.

But aren’t monsters and aliens original, non-preexisting things? I still think they are Frankensteinian conglomerates of past remembrances of demons and other beasts.

So what if we own up to the real occurrences and tell true stories of bad things. This is very delicate. One must use discernment regarding what is helpful and what is hurtful. People need someone to know the bad things that happen to them. Not everyone is qualified at any moment to handle being told. What qualifies a person is strong, wise love for that person, whether they know them well or not. One of the things that upsets me most about the Sandy Hook murders is that those children were left in that school without their parents, who supposedly couldn’t handle seeing them in that shape. I can sympathize with this. When my stillborn baby was buried, I regretted knowing about the stiff, taped, autopsied shape he was in. I wished I only had the experience of his still warm, soft body in my arms right after he was born. Since becoming Orthodox where the dead are more respectfully payed attention to, I now regret having him autopsied, but since he was, it was fitting that I experienced the results of that, however unpleasant it was. After all, he did. Shouldn’t a mother not be afraid to experience what her child does? Those children needed their parents, not strangers so much, to know exactly what happened to them. I was traumatized by the thought of their loneliness in that situation until I thought of the teachers who were killed with them. At least those children had them to experience it with and comfort them through.

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