I’ve been exposed to a lot of violence on film lately. I’m not just talking about The Passion of the Christ. I’m also talking about some of the most brutal and inhuman footage that came out of Iraq last week.

My lack of response to this abhorrent cruelty has amazed acquaintances. After all, I haven't had TV since 1989. I don't watch violent films. I'm not a soldier or a nurse. I'm more likely to escort an ant outside than to kill it. To those who don't know me well, I seem to be a wholesome kind of gal. How can I be so detached and clinical about it all?

Even I, knowing my own dark side, have been a little surprised by my blasé reactions. But then, as I was describing my philosophical approach to this violence to D., I realized why I wasn't horrified by what I'd seen.

It's no worse than what I see in my dreams on a regular basis.

Okay, so I suppose now you're thinking I need some serious therapy. But the fact is that body counts, blood, and matter-of-fact evil have been a part of my dreams since I was a child. They may not be pleasant, but I don't wake up in a screaming cold sweat from every nightmare I have. It's just that two or three times a week, I have these annoying, disturbing dreams, and I try vaguely to figure out why, and I move on.

More on this later.

Work calls.