I woke up this morning
...and it was ten minutes before I realized what day it is.
I was stumbling around in a sleepy haze, thinking about the things I need to accomplish at work today, and that the mortgage broker is supposed to call at 9:30 a.m., and what a doofus my cat is for jumping on my head at 7 o'clock in in the morning, and I was actually in the shower before it hit me that today was September 11.
The last time this happened was 9/11/2001.
More than 3,000 people also woke up for the last time that morning, the real last day of the twentieth century (see, I don't even remember the exact number; there was a time when I knew it but it's lost.
And so here we are, the rest of us, six years into the postapocalyptic future, the After of old sci-fi movies and stories. The sky fell. We're in a state of perpetual war. The government is erasing people's freedoms one by one. We all use little plastic cards instead of money; we carry computers in our pockets. All that's missing is hovercraft and a robot or two.
I remember thinking, with utter disbelief, five years and 364 days ago, that someday September 11, 2001, would be six months in the past...a year in the past...five years, six years, ten years, fifty years. It was inconceivable ("I do no' thin' that word means what you thin' it means").
And now there's now. And the shock isn't shock and the pain isn't constant.
It hurts not to hurt enough today, and it hurts to think that there are many people who will never, ever be able to feel this distance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Written September 13, 2001)
Details.
It’s the details that will break you.
Well, I know it's not. Not for some people.
But I'm lucky enough to live in Brooklyn, and to work in publishing and to know almost no one who works downtown, and to have my family and friends be safe.
So I'm lucky enough not to have to deal with the enormity. But the little things can just stab at your heart too.
It's the fact that I can't give blood because Methodist Hospital isn't accepting blood donors anymore this week because they need to process their supplies--and because there's no immediate need for blood.
It's the guy wearing the ''I [heart] New York'' T-shirt walking away from Methodist after not being able to give blood.
It's the people walking down Seventh Ave in Park Slope on Tuesday wearing surgical masks, among the dog walkers and the people with strollers and the kids with ice cream.
It's Tuesday's morning newspapers, which all covered the primary race (primary elections were supposed to be Tuesday).
It's the little pile of magazines that I bought Monday night sitting on futon, mostly still unread.
It's the kids who spent Tuesday night in my local public school because their parents never came to pick them up.
It's not being able to get a phone line for most of the day...just busy signals.
It's the woman who stayed in front of the makeshift memorial to the firefighters in Hell's Kitchen, and kept relighting the candles when they went out.
It's thirty thousand body bags.
It's the view from my roof, and it's the moment when the F train emerges on to the elevated between 4th Ave and Carroll Street, and people crane around for a glimpse of the skyline of lower Manhattan. The skyline.
It's the people lining the sidewalks and meridians of Park Avenue between 47th and 49th street after being evacuated from our office buildings because of bomb threats breaking into applause when a fire truck drove by.
It's the SUV covered with a thin film of dust coming north on Park Ave.
It's the truck towing an earth-mover going south on Ninth Avenue.
It's my coworker talking about how we're going to have to update the New York travel guides in our series. (The Twin Towers are on the cover of the most recent edition.)
It's the clerk at the comic book store behind the Empire State Building telling his friend that they can't display the Spider-man stuff (either a comic or promotion for the movie, I'm not sure).
It's the poster in the subway car advertising the special pass you can buy that gets you in to five pictured NY attractions--including the Twin Towers.
I don't know how people can bear it.
I just want it to be Monday again.
I want the unthinkable to still be unthinkable.
I was stumbling around in a sleepy haze, thinking about the things I need to accomplish at work today, and that the mortgage broker is supposed to call at 9:30 a.m., and what a doofus my cat is for jumping on my head at 7 o'clock in in the morning, and I was actually in the shower before it hit me that today was September 11.
The last time this happened was 9/11/2001.
More than 3,000 people also woke up for the last time that morning, the real last day of the twentieth century (see, I don't even remember the exact number; there was a time when I knew it but it's lost.
And so here we are, the rest of us, six years into the postapocalyptic future, the After of old sci-fi movies and stories. The sky fell. We're in a state of perpetual war. The government is erasing people's freedoms one by one. We all use little plastic cards instead of money; we carry computers in our pockets. All that's missing is hovercraft and a robot or two.
I remember thinking, with utter disbelief, five years and 364 days ago, that someday September 11, 2001, would be six months in the past...a year in the past...five years, six years, ten years, fifty years. It was inconceivable ("I do no' thin' that word means what you thin' it means").
And now there's now. And the shock isn't shock and the pain isn't constant.
It hurts not to hurt enough today, and it hurts to think that there are many people who will never, ever be able to feel this distance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Written September 13, 2001)
Details.
It’s the details that will break you.
Well, I know it's not. Not for some people.
But I'm lucky enough to live in Brooklyn, and to work in publishing and to know almost no one who works downtown, and to have my family and friends be safe.
So I'm lucky enough not to have to deal with the enormity. But the little things can just stab at your heart too.
It's the fact that I can't give blood because Methodist Hospital isn't accepting blood donors anymore this week because they need to process their supplies--and because there's no immediate need for blood.
It's the guy wearing the ''I [heart] New York'' T-shirt walking away from Methodist after not being able to give blood.
It's the people walking down Seventh Ave in Park Slope on Tuesday wearing surgical masks, among the dog walkers and the people with strollers and the kids with ice cream.
It's Tuesday's morning newspapers, which all covered the primary race (primary elections were supposed to be Tuesday).
It's the little pile of magazines that I bought Monday night sitting on futon, mostly still unread.
It's the kids who spent Tuesday night in my local public school because their parents never came to pick them up.
It's not being able to get a phone line for most of the day...just busy signals.
It's the woman who stayed in front of the makeshift memorial to the firefighters in Hell's Kitchen, and kept relighting the candles when they went out.
It's thirty thousand body bags.
It's the view from my roof, and it's the moment when the F train emerges on to the elevated between 4th Ave and Carroll Street, and people crane around for a glimpse of the skyline of lower Manhattan. The skyline.
It's the people lining the sidewalks and meridians of Park Avenue between 47th and 49th street after being evacuated from our office buildings because of bomb threats breaking into applause when a fire truck drove by.
It's the SUV covered with a thin film of dust coming north on Park Ave.
It's the truck towing an earth-mover going south on Ninth Avenue.
It's my coworker talking about how we're going to have to update the New York travel guides in our series. (The Twin Towers are on the cover of the most recent edition.)
It's the clerk at the comic book store behind the Empire State Building telling his friend that they can't display the Spider-man stuff (either a comic or promotion for the movie, I'm not sure).
It's the poster in the subway car advertising the special pass you can buy that gets you in to five pictured NY attractions--including the Twin Towers.
I don't know how people can bear it.
I just want it to be Monday again.
I want the unthinkable to still be unthinkable.