According to the series, the dead never lie. Which is true, in the most common sense. You have your forensic anthropologist going over bones or bodies further along its decomposed state that refuses identification, and it’s her job to determine sex, age, and cause of death – if the pathologist comes up fruitless. You have your entomology expert analyzing various kinds of insects found on the human remains, thus by inspection and extracting crucial particulates, it gives evidence to time and location of death. You have the forensic artist who creates images from the skull to determine identity or some idea as to what the victim looked like, yielding a database of everything you can think of by simulating the way the person died or what murder weapon might have been used. Then you have the FBI agent who asks all the necessary questions. Later on a psychologist comes along to interrogate the agent and anthropologist about their relationship as two separate poles, if you get my drift. A family around death, that is if you get to know your characters and start to love them individually. The second last episode of the sixth season we lost a member of the Jeffersonian family by sniping; a bullet meant for the agent. A song played as the scenes skipped from one member to the next – them going about their daily routine, oblivious of the fact that their chance for end is hanging by a thread – all in danger of getting shot by the illusive sniper. You did not want any of them to die, yet someone has to. The sequence of escalating events has finally come down to the final act which would determine the outcome of something entirely different.
The last couple of days I was out of it. Completely. I have been a little sick, and with sickness – staying in bed and thinking about stuff – it rips you from your thread on reality and throws you in the abyss of despair. Or something similar; whichever. I made a little bed on the floor with my abundant supply of cushions – coffee and cookies and cigarettes next to me (Unhealthy, I know, but I tend to do that if not attending gym) – and watched the whole sixth series from my computer. My bedroom is the one corner of the world I can be alone in without being disturbed whatsoever. Well, having had earphones in my ears, I was literally plugged off from the world. Good. I watched two episodes every night and two episodes every morning. Up until the second last episode, you realize through versions of entertainment how important family are. To other people. I like to study people; their emotional attachment to someone or something else entirely. I like to see how they smile, how they cry and what might have been the reason for such diverse changes within the structure of a face. I like to study actions even if as minute as a twitch of a finger or the gait of someone in anticipation of walking up to her husband from across the street. Someone at a loss; not knowing where he is going, going this way and that. Children crying. From my point of view, the one person in this series who I admire most has to be the anthropologist who has detached herself from any emotion, thus lacking in social skills, often portrayed cold and abrasive and insulting – all of that without her even realizing. I do not admire the actress, although her image has already implanted the form in which the character is set, but the personality portrayed. She is a genius, don’t believe in fate, don’t believe in coincidence. She is someone who detaches herself emotionally and looks at everything in an objective manner, supplying hard facts for everything including otherwise mundane theories or whatnot.
Not that I understand how any one person can live like that. She tends to explain things in the most intelligent and sensible manner, using truth in facts, thus withholding personal bias. Now this last few days I have come to realize that I, too, detach myself from anyone else. I don’t see people other than the two ladies at home, I don’t want to see other people. I like to be alone. Am I becoming excessively reclusive? I, on the other hand, can live like that. I like the words I write and books I read, it keeps me company in ways that people never seem to solve. I like the feedback I get, even if just from the one person I know, and vice versa. I like gathering and researching facts myself, expanding knowledge of everything around me. Intricate details or links from one thing to the next, nothing superficial or mainstream. Like the connection I have with the night while pedaling home, accompanied by nocturnal birds, getting wet what with it raining all the time. With that, I like having an actual imagination and using it to some advantage, any advantage. I don’t have to share.
Already I have lost my train of thought. Again.
That will be all for now . . .