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Tuesday, September 18, 2001
And then I woke up (again)
In ten days I don't know where I'm going to be. Getting ready to go? It's a mystery to me where my life is heading now. Showing my place to friends and acquaintances has been a little rough. They love it so much. "The light! The location! The ceiling!" I have been living in a "dream loft" for the last seventeen months. For the first year I lived like I wasn't even here. Boxes in the corner, and a barely functioning kitchen. Many plans, but few realizations. Mostly for good reasons like money. Some not so good. But I'll miss this place, and the neighborhood, and more then anything the people who have become my friends. But after the insanity of the last week it's harder for me to leave. It only takes one look at the glowing, smoking, crater across the river to realize that you cannot be so close to so much pain and death and not be changed by it. If you could you wouldn't be human, or at least a human worth knowing. For me that change is that I want to stay. Now is not the right time to leave all that behind, as the healing begins, as we pull together and realize that in this moment we've become more than just friends, we've turned into real New Yorkers. Fucking A, I was BORN on that island, and it doesn't make me any more of a native then the people who went through what we've gone through. To celebrate our rebirth in fire and smoke last night we drank, and ate, and spun fire on the waterfront. The aggro energy dark carnival that I noticed resonating in the desert were not the zeitgeist, but shockwaves from the future. They are the present now. So we hugged each other and tried not to stare for too long at the smoky glow less then a mile away. It is stranger than any special effect because the screen that it is spread across is the reality of your experience. It is not just a memory, it is the now. No laughter really, but it was so nice to see each other smile. Part of me wants to be here as the city rebuilds itself. To suffer together with the other New Yorkers as the crater heals and the spirit of the city rises up again. To be around these people that I love, and that I've shared so much, when I suddenly catch myself laughing again. There's business to be taken care of in San Francisco. And the new attitude that I've learned here has hardened me just a little bit, sharpened an edge I didn't know I had before. I've learned from the people here. The time has come to put away some childish things. I'm still dedicated to happiness, but my eyes are open. The moment, the now, has moved a little bit closer. Nearby boils a reminder that it can end at any one of those instants. In those occasional times when things look bad, or the abyss looms closer, my imagination fires up and lets me know that this could be the end. In the last few years a part of my mind whispers this to me: "It's been a pretty good life." As long as I can always say that to myself, then it's always okay. If I can do just a little bit more, then it's going to be great. Monday, September 17, 2001
Waking for the fallen.
This disaster is not an invitation for those who think that they have moral superiority to tell others how they should be grieving, feeling, or behaving. How we deal is how we deal. I choose to stand at the edge of the apocalypse and blow fire into the void. I choose to drink and dance with friends. I choose to witness a coven of pagans singing songs of mourning. Tongue clucking and finger pointing does not work on me. In this moment rediscovering a small spark of joy, that we can once again find a way to make happiness glow. I will feel my pain in my own way, and I will wake up to discover that a new day is dawning for me. Sunday, September 16, 2001
Agonized, New York Bends, but It Doesn't Break
One of the hoariest clichés is that hard times bring out the best in New Yorkers, whose hometown did not achieve international greatness by being witless and docile in adversity. The thing about clichés is that they are usually rooted in essential truth. The Times can sometimes be simply amazing in it's ability to put into words what no picture can ever say. It's comforting to know while the Blog community has eclipsed many local and international news sources in terms of both it's quality and insight, it is still the paper of record that has the alchemical powers needed to translate feelings into words, and then unlock those emotions as you activate it with your eyes. If you want a taste of what it was like to be a resident of this city in the last week, then you should read this. free registration required Saturday, September 15, 2001
Summer is only a memory now. The last days wiped away in fire and rain.
Our official day of mourning is over, and TV news graphics tell us that "America Rebuilds." But the media is too busy feeding on the corpses to care. Endless interviews spill anguish into our lives over and over again, ripping open the wounds again and again. They hurt us and those who are still in the midst of our grief so that they can send in waves of experts to smother us in pop culture platitudes about healing. I need to get out of the house. I'm pushed to get as close to the fire as I can. Wall street has been reopened, access by Subway only. An island within the island. I need to go in and see. Things have started to return to normal in the upper part of the city. As I enter into Union Square station the only appropriate metaphor is that of a river. Flowing forward, pushed by it's own momentum, uncaring and unaware of what flows within it. People are using the subway. It still feels toxic. Waiting for the train I feel a little dread. Getting closer to the smoking hole. I'm going to see the damage. I'm going to see who else will show up. Last night the Mayor had said that the financial district would be open today. Following the stream of people out of the only exit from the Fulton street station and into the confusion of the street above I realize that open is far too strong a word for what is really happening here. There are many gawkers, myself included, and the police make us move quickly out of the road and onto the sidewalks. The air is acrid and sharp. The ground is covered in dust, and cops stand at the corner of every block. The small streets of the oldest part of the city seem to have become a maze. From Fulton St. you can see the smoking remains of one of the buildings. All the windows are gone and smoke pours out of the roof. It stands like a charred stump covered with a hazy gray brown shroud. Somewhere just out of sight is what has come to be known as ground zero. Clumped on the street corner next to me is a pile of hats, bags, and water bottles. Supplies for the Con Ed workers, left out in the open, and untouched. I follow down the edge of the open zone. William Street heading south. A plywood box snakes down the sidewalk across the street from me. Half a foot high it covers bundles of thick cables that will be bringing power and information back to the Stock Exchange on Monday morning. Besides the workers making their attempts at reconstruction, most of us are tourists here. What other reason could there be for hundreds of people to be here on a Saturday afternoon? Most of us are silent, and only occasional conversation punctures the distant growls of generators and clanking metal. People have scrawled messages on the dust coated windows. A few are memorials, others just graffiti. At Cedar and William I walk toward an building size open plot of ground. A block of green earth surrounded by a cyclone fence. Strewn amongst the wild grass and tiny trees is paper. I realize that it is confetti from the collapse. Children stop and help me collect a few pieces, getting some souvenirs of their own. This is obviously business debris. Mundane forms, reciepts, and presentations. Most of them more meaningful scattered as reminders of the disaster then they were when they were filed away up in the sky. On Pine street the military stands guard. A far more awesome presence then the police in their military helmets and combat gear. New Yorkers stop to chat with them anyway. A vendor rolls his cart out of the cordoned off zone towards me. It spews out dust as it bounces down the street. As he rolls closer I see that it is what remains of a fruit stand. The umbrellas and astroturf are torn and ruined. A few remaining dusty grapes bravely jostle as it rumbles past. As William and Wall the military presence thickens with the smoke. A HumVee rolls up. A few troops gather to pull out dust masks. Down the street I see a tall Cathedral. I don't know it's name, but I do recognize it's gothic design all the same. Smoke swirls around it, the afternoon sunlight catching the spire. It's shockingly beautiful, a symbol of uneasy faith. 25 feet down the street, beyond the military, is a coffee stand. One of the shiny metal and lucite boxes where millions of New Yorkers get their morning meal every day. It is still filled with bagels and danish. Obviously untouched since Tuesday morning, when the rush for food changed to a rush for survival. It's dawning on me that on this day the financial district has become a museum. The buildings are empty. The streets are still dusty from the disaster. We are all looking for signs of what had occurred, and they are everywhere. At William and Beaver is a parking lot. Even here there is a light scattering of papers. On one of the gates is taped a sign for someone's missing cat, along with a picture. Obviously put up before the disaster, it is a reminder of how much our priorities have changed in the last few days. I wander down to Bowling green. Firemen walk out of the zone. I check their jackets, and they are New York firefighters. They are obviously weary and covered with dust. A few people clap as they walk by, and they appreciate the gesture and smile. They walk only a block to a nearby car, and begin to pull of their gear. Replacing dusty rubber boots with sneakers as they prepare to head back to the station for some much needed rest. You can feel how tired they are. It rolls off of them in waves. Here at the southern end of the island the sun shines, and a clean breeze pushes back the smoke. A water truck attempts to clear the dust out in front of Bowling green. The small park glows in the yellow sun, and the trees rustle in the breeze. This island of normalcy only a toehold against the tragedy nearby, but it is enough to prove that the city will go on. Fair or not, right now it is beautiful here today.
Friday, September 14, 2001
Mir Tamim Ansary on Afghanistan
We're flirting with a world war between Islam and the West. And guess what: that's Bin Laden's program. That's exactly what he wants. That's why he did this. Read his speeches and statements. It's all right there. He really believes Islam would beat the west. This showed up in my email earlier today, and I think it's important to remember that our world is much smaller than it has ever been before. That we are not being attacked by strangers, but possibly by peoples from the same country that a little over a decade ago we were celebrated as heroes in Rambo movies. But we no longer face a country that we see as a unified enemy, willing and able to face us on the battlefield. The people who did this are terrorists, a group of fanatics who have hacked the security of our country to spread fear so that the world will begin to follow their agenda. They use fear to manipulate us, and make us puppets on the world stage. As children these were the villains that our heroes would find and smash. The bad men that Superman would capture in their lair. But in the world we live in, where all men are created equal, there are no easy answers. When blood is spilled the color of it is never black or white. I'm angry as well, and as I search my feelings I find myself strangely willing to accept that this our retribution will be neither clean or simple. That we will be causing some pain and anguish to people who simply are in the wrong place and time. But for me to accept that it must be a reasoned response. Union Square - September 13, 2001 - 6pm
In the desert one artist built a structure called the mausoleum. Made of cast off puzzle pieces it was a beautiful, haunted place. Gothic and quiet, inside of it people wrote on the walls, on blocks of wood, and left images of people they had lost. They wrote about the things that were causing them pain that they wouldn't, or couldn't let go. Sunday night, a day after the man had burned, there was a far more somber ceremony as the artist told the thousands of us assembled who had left messages inside, that whatever it was that we were mourning, "It wasn't your fault." The Mausoleum was ignited, and surrounded by blowing wind, and burning dust the building disappeared in fire. In New York, 3,000 miles away in space, and eleven days later in time, I can feel that pain and anguish again, here in Union Square. But in this moment it is not a time of letting go, because here the building burned first. Taped down to the sidewalks are large sheets of paper, colored pens strewn everywhere. People are expressing their grief in words and pictures, and the sheets are covered with messages and flowers that those of us who are dealing with this disaster are sending to each other. Here and there are puddles of wax where candles have burned away. Many of the statements are political. A number call for peace or restraint. A few question America, asking to consider that maybe this was something we deserved. Others cry for war and retribution, but most do so in muted terms. There are religious messages telling us that "only Christ is the answer," or that "Muslims mourn with the world." Many ask that we trust God show us the way out, or that we pray to him for his mercy and strength. The heartfelt words of love for this city are stirring and almost shocking in their aggressiveness. "I (heart) New York" is expressed over and over again. These are often mixed with gratitude for "New York's Finest & Bravest." People who have risked, are risking, and have lost their lives, attempting to save the city that they love from an incredible tragedy. Children have scrawled out sentences, revealing just how little the comprehend what has happened here. But they feel sadness along with everyone else, "I am sorry they died. RIP," says one. It is badly misspelled but obviously heartfelt . In the center of all this stands a statue of a giant candle. It is ten feet tall, made of stucco and wire. The words "TO THE VICTIMS OF TERRORISTS ATTACKS" are spelled out in tiles across it. Attached to the base with duct tape is a foot long chunk of steel. It says "Piece of World Trade 2" on it. Standing directly in front of the statue of George Washington, the candle is the center of the mourning. The ground here is far more densely covered with paper, candles, flowers, and incense. People have placed objects around it that obviously belong to people who have been lost. Most of us simply stand in a circle and watch the people crying as they write. But too many of the spectators are shooting photos or video of those sitting on the ground. Tears fall and the cameras swarm. One woman is both crying and shooting. After taking a picture she holds up an unlit candle and simply stares out into space, lost. In that moment the sounds of bagpipes drift across the plaza, adding some sense of dark ceremony to what is going on here. Unlike the desert, many of the people here seem to be beginning what will be a long journey from this place to find their own meaning. This is a ritual with only beginning. Right now Union Square is a place of community, with the people who were struck by what happened reaching out to each other in order find out what it means to live in the biggest city in the world. Back at the Mausoleum a woman in front of me snapped picture after picture as it burned, and I wanted to stop her, to tell her to put her camera away. Those feelings are even stronger as the video cameras loom and stare at those in anguish, obviously hoping to get an award winning shot. You can never really "capture the moment" in times like these. You cannot mourn on video tape. Being there is the most important part of it. And here, now, amongst the hundreds of cameras that are attempting to try and record what is going on they can only capture images, without being able to really tell the people of the world what we are trying to tell each other. That in this moment we are still here, and we are still alive. What I wrote: No Anger No Fear Thursday, September 13, 2001
It's hard to stop watching.
But I have to. I was feeling better this morning when I woke up, but sitting down in front of the television has subjected me to a blast of pain and confusion. We so want the terror to be over in the moment. We try to convince ourselves that the act itself to be the moment of catharsis. But I've seen so many people searching for answers. Friends trying to work through their feelings by analyzing the results, or simply confused by what they percieve as a lack of reaction from those around them. I've seen people on the Internet exressing anger, resentment, and looking for a scapegoat on both sides of the political spectrum. People on the street who are just staring at the empty sky where a part of our innocence was torn away. In Douglas Adams' books their is a machine that drives people insane simply by showing them the grand majesty of the entire universe, along with a unimaginably tiny arrow that points to your location along with the words "You Are Here". For all of you who are feeling pain and confusion today as you try to piece together what it is that's going on, remember that the impact of these events is larger than a single person can fathom. It is the lives of all 275 million Americans that have been changed by what occured on Tuesday. It is the heart of the country that hurts today, and we are all a part of that. We fight so hard to be unique in this country that sometimes it's difficult to remember that we are joined together with all of those around us in this tragedy. We are sharing that pain. It's just hard to admit that we are a nation in mourning, with the denial, fear, bargaining, anger, and finally acceptance that grief brings. It's taken me a long time to do very little today. I'm doing what I can, and what I need to. Take care of yourselves and each other. Things are getting back on track, but they are far from normal.
I have to figure out many things today. The plan is still to leave the city at the end of the month, but things are getting much more difficult. I was expecting that my apartment would rent quickly. Who knows if that will happen now? If it doesn't it could cost me thousands of dollars and/or a month of my time. In the scale of things that are going on around me it seems like very little... Friends of mine are leaving due to the smoke and dust, but I'm planning a longer term escape and need the time to make that happen. There is a sobriety this morning that I imagine is shared by many people. Human emotion is fluid. Few of us can stay in one emotional state for very long before we have to move on. We have to decide what we are doing next, and how we get from here to there. Wednesday, September 12, 2001
I watched the news today.
The stories of New York unfolded on the skeletal remains of the media that still flow through the air. Warner Wolf, a local sportscaster, known for his catch phrase "Let's go to the video tape!" instead described meeting a firefighter who talked about the people who jumped from the windows "exploding" as they hit the street. Usually in something like this there is so little to tell, but today there is so much. The news is the stories of the thousands of us who were there. The thousands more who are only just beginning to realize that with the collapse of the towers a way of life disappeared forever. The comfort of tomorrow is gone. I keep thinking back to those construction workers sitting on Kent street last night, waiting to cross the street and begin the grim work of digging New York out of the remains of two of the tallest buildings in the world. From time to time I see a piece of equipment on television that was obviously one of those that was sitting on the street. Those guys are in there. I wish I could be too. But there's not much need for my skills right now. "There are enough volunteers." That's a wonderful thing. But there aren't nearly the numbers of wounded that they expected. The word hope is thrown around, but it's becoming more and more obvious that very few survivors will be pulled from the smoking hole. In my time here I've discovered that a great deal of the attributes that I ineherited from this place are things that I wish I hadn't. But watching the hard work of these people and the heroic determination in the face of impossible odds make me realize that some of my best qualities are also things that I've gained from growing up in New York. The horror of the first day begins to stretch into frustration as we realize that we have only begun to see the scope of the damage to this city. The desire for things to return to normal, to push forward, has been frustrated by collapsing buildings and choking smoke. Friends have been sending me email, and people I haven't spoken too in over a year have made contact. Letting me know that they care, and that they're glad to hear that I'm okay. Tomorrow I suppose I'll venture out a little bit more. Turn off the television and move through the streets of the city. But today I couldn't bring myself to take one more look at the smoke streaming across the sky. So much happened yesterday that it seemed like enough. How many times can I see the buildings fall? We'll see what the new day brings. After Dori took off from the bar for her apartment I realized I needed to get my bike and took off to follow her.
As I stepped out of the gate I heard the sqeal of tires as a car. Some idiot was trying to pass a van on the left. He failed spectacularly and smashed into the streetlight, knocking it down with his front left bumper, then rolling over it before stopping in the middle of Kent street. No one was hurt, luckily. But there was far too many people who decided that the disaster of yesterday was an excuse for them to behave like fools. To be loud, angry, and selfish. As we walked to the bar earlier that evening there was a spectacular image visible through a red brick garage entrance. A recently demolished building revealed a perfectly framed image of the smoke and damage across the river, the sun lighting it spectacularly. As each car pulled up to it the driver would suddenly see it. Their car would slow, and the people behind them began to honk, or attempt ridiculous maneuvers to try and get around the rubber-neckers. But every mad driver was transformed the instant they saw it, suddenly realizing the enormity of the day in that moment. New Yorkers are not spiritual people by nature. Things that resonate in their soul, force them to drop their ego and become humble, human, and part of the world around them, tend to make the nervous and angry. But we are all human, and when that moment comes, when we stare into the void of death and finality that is our common legacy, there can be no room for all the emotions that try to scream me, me, me. There is only awe. September 11, 6:30
We sit and drink as Manhattan burns. Long clouds blot out the details across the river. A curtain over how much, how many, how long. Tomorrow we'll know more, but the city tonight is wounded and burning. The scale of New York has always been out of proportion to the rest of the world. September 11, Sunset A picture is worth a thousand words. Let me paint a few. Only emergency vehicles stream over the Brooklyn Bridge across from me. Their sirens and lights pass by on the streets behind me as well. Flashing red and white to say that danger is everywhere. The black cloud continues to billow where the towers once stood. The remaining buildings have disappeared behind angry smoke. Beyond this New York seems the same, but obviously the fires continue to rage in the spirits of those around me. People snap photographs, or just stare, arms crossed. Their children are here, watching, and unable to comprehend that they are witnesses to this day that will live as part of their history. The sun has set now, and the Brooklyn bridge is a string of lights into the heart of this new darkness. More lights and more sirens continue to flash. Danger, death, and destruction has surrounded us. You can't smell the smoke, but you can feel it, and you can see it. Back in the bar across the street the single remaining station that has survived to broadcast the news to the city blares out a blurry story to the crowd. On the screen bombs are exploding in Afghanistan. The topic of conversation shifts slightly, but one word continues to surface again and again in the conversations that surround me. |
