Christopher Tjaart McLea: An opening thought on context

The night was twisting its way past the fluorescent lights of a corridor situated in a nondescript building. The motel manager was doing his round checking to see all was in order when he abruptly stopped at the door at the end of the passage. He tilted his head slightly towards the door, like a dog does to get a certain acoustic advantage. He could hear a commotion coming from inside the room. It sounded like a woman's voice shouting, squealing and a rather loud thumping sound. At first he passed it off as just the usual sound that might erupt from the vintage orange and avocado clad rooms on a regular old Saturday night. But this was different. There was something quite desperate and disturbing about the woman's voice and the thumping was sound was surprisingly loud and erratic. The motel manager crept a bit closer, tentatively placing his eyeball over the keyhole of the door. His hunch seemed correct. There was definitely something strange going on inside the room. He could clearly hear the woman still squealing in a high pitched and deranged manner. He could see what appeared to be a strong brute of an arm spearing down towards the ground with some kind of solid object in hand. It made a tremendous sound as it appeared to hit the floor. The woman's cries continued. The motel manager stood back in a panic. His mind was now racing. He had left the master key back at reception. He suddenly jumped into action. He stood a few paces back, tucked in his shoulder and charged the door. He came crashing at the door with a tremendous force. The door shuddered but it did not buckle. He tried his approach once more, but this time as he came thrusting towards the door it opened from within and the motel manager went stumbling over the threshold and onto the floor. He looked up with horror covering his bleak face. He clenched his teeth and jumped up on his feet, now facing a brute of a man, dressed in a wife beater top and pajama pants. He noticed beside the confused look on the brute's face that the man was holding a shoe. Thick soled and covered with black polished leather. The hotel manager cried out, "Where is she?" and turned around to face the bed. He could make out a ghostly lump under the covers. "What did you do to her, you maniac?" he exclaimed. then from beyond the covers popped two fearful shivering eyes. "Are you alright. ma'am? Did he hurt you?" the motel manager beckoned. "Yes, of course I'm fine. Which is more than I can say for it!", she pointed angrily to the corner of the room where her husband was standing quite bemused. The motel manager turned around and in front of the naked feet of this giant of a man, the motel manager could see the squashed remains of what appeared to be one hell of a cockroach. So why relate this story. Well, I think this kind of sums up the current hysteria we often see unleashed on social media and among the public in general. Sometimes, I kind of feel like I am that brute in the motel room, trying my best just to live my life, and then from somewhere beyond the mob sets on me without ever trying to understand what I am about. I will reveal more in follow up blog posts but this one is just to set the tone of the direction I'm going with this blog. If there is something I hate more than anything else is this feeling of being judged by others. This hypocrisy of them somehow being the innocent victims of my brutish behavior when all I want is to be left alone. Mob mentality, no perspective, no interest in nuance, or detail, clarity or context. I can't stand the mob. Let him without sin cast the first stone, and how about getting some context first before you start casting your stones?