Is it the writer in me, or is it the reason I'm a writer? Am I trying to understand other people, or myself? Or both? I don't know. But I have an unending fascination with documentaries, articles and books about why people do what they do. This curiosity has taken me some disturbing places: into the pages of In Cold Blood and Perfect Murder, Perfect Town, and spellbound for hours watching way too many Unsolved Mysteries, 48 Hours, and City Confidentials. When I hit overload a couple years back, I decided I needed to steer away from such bleakness. Reading about individuals that disconnected from society, and their resultant activities, was eroding my own peace of mind and sense of well-being.

Now I attempt to quench my thirst with stories that are psychologically fascinating nonetheless, but include some positive aspects. Like biographical shows about Michael Jackson and Britney Spears that highlight their gifts along with how they handle, or don't handle, being too connected to people, too incessantly under the spotlight...or maybe not connected enough when the lights shut off. Or documentaries on the travails of the autistic savant twins Flo and Kay that love Dick Clark, the many adults that practice modern-day vampirism, and parents in memoirs like The Glass Castle, all people living on the fringes of our communities, either because that's where they are most comfortable, or because they can't figure out how to connect with a larger community. How can I write real characters if I don't understand what makes real people tick?

So I may have disregarded (not for the first time) my guidelines on dark subject matter when I decided to watch The Sundance Channel's documentary "Zoo" last night. But I'm an animal lover from way back. The first profession I dreamed about was veterinarian, a dream I nurtured for years, until I finally accepted that my love for animals was one that would make cutting into them extremely difficult. The people in this documentary also profess a deep love for animals. However, their animal love encompassed sexual intercourse. In Washington state in 2005, bestiality was not a crime. This film is about a ranch in verdant green and naturally beautiful Enumclaw, Washington, a ranch where men come to have sexual intercourse with Arabian stallions. They love these horses, so they proclaim. They find a simple peace, an uncomplicated acceptance, a real connection with these animals during the sex act, perhaps the most real connection they know. And if nothing had happened, these men might have continued their activities with no one the wiser. But something did happen. The man known only as Mr. Hands to the group, identified later as Boeing engineer Kenneth Pinyan, went naked into the dark field, encouraged the stallion to mount him and guided the stallion's penis into his anus one too many times. His colon was perforated, and he died from internal bleeding a matter of hours later.      

Do I think I'll use what I gleaned from this human saga in an upcoming piece of writing? I don't foresee it. Not directly, anyhow. Yet I think writing is about searching for a true connection. That's why we do what we do. We write to connect. I don't know that I'll ever write anything that will reach the palms, eyes, brain, and heart of someone like Mr. Hands, but maybe I will write something that somehow will reach someone else, someone who will then find the confidence, strength and wherewithal to reach out and help a soul as lost, terribly disconnected and troubled as Mr. Hands.

I don't know. And so I write.