anti:freeze

I have been thinking alot about Jodi Huisentruit lately, the television news anchor who went missing in Mason City, Iowa, in 1995. I didn't realize it was the ten-year anniversary of her disappareance until I heard about an upcoming special report on 20/20 (airing tonight.)

The time slipped away so fast. I mean, I knew what year she disappeared, but I was not thinking in terms of decades.

Hers was one of those cases you do not easily forget, and though I never watched her news program (I lived in Iowa City, so her local news news show did not air there), there was just something about her. In a way, she reminded me of Tammy Zywicki.

She has now been missing a full one-third of my life. One-third of my life.

Strange. I was writing about her today when I heard about the 20/20 feature. Anniversary aside, it feels like a certain energy is in the air. Something palpable. Let's hope the Mason City Police find Jodi and solve the mystery. At long last.

Last night, I watched the 20/20 Jodi Huisentruit documentary, and I found myself instantly transported to another time. Everything was familiar: the news anchors, the landscape, Jodi Huisentruit, the sense of absolute innocence and disbelief.

Strange how a face can affect you so much, how just the very sight of it can reduce you to tears.

I cried as I watched the old news footage: Jodi in front of a red barn on a snowy day; Jodi walking through a clothing store; Jodi at the anchor desk; aerial shots of Mason City; wide-angle shots of the flat, vast Iowa countryside. Part of my tears came from watching Jodi, part from watching familiar landscapes pan across the television screen. I know the small towns and wide open spaces in those shots. I grew up in Iowa, and even though I never want to move back, I miss it sometimes.

Something else moved me, too. So many of Jodi's fellow reporters shared stories of threatening letters and emails - most from viewers who felt intimately close with the local news anchors. Too close.

This is a threat I know well, a feeling I tried to forget over all these years. Back when I wrote columns for a small local newspaper, people recognized me everywhere I went. They approached me in coffee shops, at the grocery store, on the sidewalk, and even in the bathroom. They invited me to lunch, asked personal questions, stepped into my personal space. Sometimes, they blocked my path, and I never knew if it was intentional.

Then there were the letters. They arrived addressed to me personally, not the newspaper. One man described his knife collection in alarming detail, inviting me over to see it. Another told me he wanted to pry open my mouth, wire the jaw wide, and dump alcohol down my throat.

I never reported them, although I double-checked my door locks at night.

One of Jodi's colleagues said she felt guilty just for surviving - for not being the one the stalker chose. Even though nobody close to me went missing (with the exception of one great aunt who literally vanished from our lives, but who nobody ever reported as actually missing), I feel the guilt, too. As I wrote in Interstate Radiographs: I traveled the same dangerous highways as anyone, and I made it alive to the exit ramps.

That is something I have been exploring lately, and I will post notes soon.

Since I was stuck indoors with a throbbing, aching, broken foot, I spent the holiday weekend completing some long-overdue maintenance on my various sites. Broken bones, it turns out, make a great excuse for geeking out.

I moved evidentiary:alchemy and mapped a domain for easier access. I also mapped a domain to missing | person. Both sites also feature a snazzy new design, as well as new features. I plan to post to them *a lot* this week.

Here are the updated URLS:

evidentiary:alchemy
Update your links to http://www.forensicwriter.com.

missing | person
Send your search team to http://www.missingwriter.com

More writing later today!

As many of you know, I dearly love the writings of Scottish Beat writer Alexandar Trocchi (the man himself is another story, but then, his bad behavior is part of the attraction.)

So of course I dreaded the movie version of Young Adam. I did not want to see Ewan McGregor and his toothy, saccharine grin in the role of Joe. Not that I have anything against Ewan McGregor; I simply thought him too sweet for the part. (A little too pretty, a little too innocent. A little too Gap-ad-esque.)

That is, until now.

I finally watched the movie this past weekend, and though I only had access to the R version (not the NC-17 version played overseas), I found myself transported right back into the book. Everything felt true: the blue cast to the light, the close-ups of clammy skin, the brilliant green of the grass, Ewan McGregor's sexy-creepy stares and unhealthy pallor, Emily Mortimer (as Cathie) floating dead in the water, Emily Mortimer flirting on the beach, the amoral/moral ambiguity of every moment.

The movie is not perfect, and I have my complaints, but overall, it captures the mood and interiority of the book - not an easy task.

One scene I will never forget: Joe throwing a bowl full of custard at Cathie, after she complains about her long hours at work, while he sits at home writing. Cathie, wearing nothing but a garter belt & underpants, falls to the floor as Joe continues his assault - spanking her with a stick, squirting ketchup onto her back, spreading it across her skin, pouring salt into the mix, and forcing her onto her belly before engaging in (anal?) sex and leaving her alone on the floor. Throughout the scene, Cathie seems to laugh hysterically (or is she screaming?) Later that same night, the two cuddle in bed. In the background: jazzy instrumentals by David Byrne.

It was one thing to read that scene, but quite another to watch it.

At the heart of the story is the concept of justice, innocence, and morality.

One night (in the immediate past, right before the story begins), Cathie and Joe run into each other after a brief time apart. They have sex under a railway car, and Cathie reveals she is pregnant. Joe, sweet as always, tells her, "I will send money when I have some."

Cathie chases behind him as he walks away. She falls into the river and drowns. Joe does not push her, but he does not exactly jump in to save her, either. Nor does he alert the authorities, even though he knows she cannot swim. (Later, he does jump into the water to rescue a little boy, which shows us two things: he can do it when he wants to - or when he is watched - and/or his character changed after Cathie's death.)

Flash to the present: Police believe Cathie was murdered, and they drag in another man to stand trial. Joe is now faced with a serious dilemma: Does he reveal what he knows about her death? If he does, he will surely hang for her drowning, even though he is innocent. If he does not, this other innocent man will hang for the same crime. Either way, there is no justice. Either way, an innocent man dies. Is the injustice somehow greater if the other man hangs?

But of course, this assumes his memories tell the truth. Does Joe lie to himself about that night? Did Cathie fall into the water? Or did he push her? It remains ambiguous.

And this doesn't even begin to explore it all (such as his affair with the wife of his boss on the barge, or his numerous other encounters, the way he seems to prey on loneliness.)

I recommend the book more than the movie, of course, but do see it.

I have a lot more to say about this movie, but I need to let it sink in. More on this later. In the meantime, here is an interesting review from April of last year.

Last month, I was writing in my favorite cafe when I noticed four men huddled around a corner table. They leaned in tight, their eyes fixed on the digital display of a crude metal device. Wires stuck out from the side, twisted in messy copper nests. The electrical cord still had the Warning: Risk of Electric Shock sticker near the plug. I assumed one of the men bought a new toy at Sharper Image and brought it along for morning coffee - the adult version of show & tell. I looked away.

But the machine display kept flashing and blinking, its red glow reflected in the window. I peeked over the huddle, and I could not believe what I saw: a clock ticking backwards, counting down. Counting down from what? To what?

I watched the numbers and thought of those cheesy millenium clocks everyone wanted in 1999 - back when we all believed civilization would collapse at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve.

Suddenly, my toes and fingers felt clammy and cold. I packed my notebooks, called my husband, and glanced back over at the device. Ten minutes left. Ten minutes until what?

What if it was a bomb? It didn't seem like a bomb, but perhaps that was the idea?

I never thought that way before 9/11. But I do now. Even at the most illogical moments. It is not that I feel terror at every turn or panic over every abandoned backpack on the sidewalk or bus (though I notice them and report them to authorities/clerks/busdrivers, just in case.) It is not even that I spend my time worrying about an attack. It's more like a mood that passes over me.

I decided to wait it out and see what happened. My husband was meeting me soon, and we would leave together.

Time ticked down, and all I did was watch.

If you know me well (and few people do), you know I avoid tunnels, caves, and enclosed spaces of all kinds. I ride subways, but only after I try to find a bus. I book the aisle seat. I stay away from basements and cellars.

Sometimes, I dream about Spook Cave in northern Iowa. My grandmother and I took a tour boat ride through the cave once. Memories come in fragments and flashes: lantern light on a scarred wrist, a musty whiff of chill air, a hole in my gums where my incisor fell out. The inside of that gum hole felt like the sides of Spook Cave - rough and raw, fleshy and forbidden.

In my dreams, I confuse the cave with memories of a Disneyworld ride. I remember a belt across my lap and the bar I gripped in a cold sweat. Our carriage seemed to float through the dark. And in the dark: a giant spinning globe, inches from my head, that I tried to reach out and push; It's a Small World playing faint in the background, like a music box muffled under a pillow; the girl seated directly in front of me, crying. Or maybe that was me crying?

When I was in Paris, I loved the Metro. For a girl from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the trains were exotic and strange. I loved the freedom - how I could ride vast distances across the city, driver's license or not. But every time I descended the stairs, I felt a chill on the back of my neck. My scalp tingled. I felt vaguely like I was submitting to some uknown force, walking willingly into danger. Into a trap.

But then, traps exist above ground, too. I avoid all rides where I must be belted in.

So when I think about the bombs in London, I think about those tunnels. What happens when an explosion blows up in a tight space? What terrible memories come to the survivors, in their dreams? (That is, if they can sleep at all.)

Zarah over at Razor Blade Cuts tagged me for the Book Meme, so here goes ...

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451. Which book do you want to be?

Forensic Fire Scene Reconstruction. Because forensics are violence in reverse. Sweet revenge. Triumphant resurrection.

But if Forensic Fire Scene Reconstruction burns, would it render reconstruction impossible? Or would its words resist incineration, since they undo what fire has done? Would this burning become an endless loop of fire and fire-scene-reconstruction, fire and fire-scene-reconstruction, fire and fire-scene-reconstruction?

I read somewhere that mirrors serve as powerful deterrants to crime, since criminals literally come face-to-face with their own intentions & acts. Their own eyes. Would it be like that?

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Oh, God yes. Yes, yes, yes!

Hamlet. I wrote love poems to him in my high school English journal, and my teacher responded in the margin: Get thee to a nunnery! I had it BAD. I used to lie awake at night and try to wish Hamlet into being.

Joe in Young Adam. I know, I know. I like the bad boys. (See, I think this is an extension of my crush on Trocchi ... )

Henry in The Secret History

Richard in The Secret History

Robbie in Atonement

Antigone

Ophelia in Hamlet

Louisa in Gordon by Edith Templeton

The last book you bought is?