Innermost Thought

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September 12, 2002

9/11/2002

Disclaimer: The following should be prefaced with the adamant direction to "Burn This". It's probably more than one ever wanted to know about the dark side of me. It is probably better off sealed in a letter with a wax seal to be placed on my grave and unearthed hundreds of years later, after I am dead, when my descendants know of me only from stories and a faded picture. I'll probably read this tomorrow and make a fervent promise to never publish my stuff when I am in such a state. Oh Well. In the interest of writing, and growing as a writer and that Writer in me that says, "hey, this is pretty damn good stuff" I put it out there as an honest-at-the-time attempt to describe the tempest within me. If you mention this to my face, be prepared. It is likely I will vehemently deny it. So with out further ado...

My head is swimming with things to do. The company, my career, my job. I hope I remember them all.

Tonight I am alone and depressed and it's 9-11 all over again. I am afraid I'm going to totally lose it in the oddest places and in the weirdest ways.

Walking to work today- yes I did go to work- I was in the best mood. With a smile on my face and a wiggle in my walk I was loving this city. A new day had dawned and it was beautiful. The weather was gorgeous with a sky as blue as when I was child full of innocence and wonder at the magic in the world. Then, BAM!. The names of the dead on every ticker in Times Square. Vincent Abate, Edward L. Allegreto, David Reed Gamboa Broadhurst....

Coming home @ 7:30pm, Times Square was eery in its silence. Half the shows were closed as well as some of the restaurants. The few hawkers selling their schlock looked odd and out of place. The TKTS booth was nearly empty. I almost went to see "Thoroughly Modern Millie" tonight but Harriet Harris was out. I was gonna take advantage of this inauspicous occasion but no, not tonight.

I didn't celebrate today. Didn't mourn. Didn't commemorate. Now I sort of wished I had. It would have been really good to commiserate with my fellows. Maybe I have been looking at this whole event the wrong way. Today I feel so lonely. So alone with no one on which to release my grief. These feelings of conflict and desolation. Those 3000 people are dead. Gone from this world. There are babies without fathers and a new army in heaven.

Through this loneliness I feel strangely connected to passersby-no one I know- silent compadres in a world of confusion and emptiness. I look at the couples on the opposite sides of me at Charley O's and I wonder, "Do they feel it too? Do they know me as their sister in this city?"

One man tried to take advantage of this solemnity and fraternity. This pain and desolation that I and my city felt. He tried to talk to me as I was walking by-but not as brother- more like a hunter. When I walked on by he took a cut to head me off at the pass. My anger, my strength felt good. Finally something solid I could grab onto.
"Why won't you talk to me? You don't socialize with strangers?"
"I don't owe you an explanation. I'm sure you're a fine person. Get out of my face. Goodbye" and I cross the street.

Ahh. The mad-ness. The outlet. That moment felt good and I know I could have railed on him until words would kill him. All I'd have to do is open the gate. I wonder if I would have liked it better if he had followed me across the street. I wonder if I would have savored the opportunity to fight. To battle. The chance to seethe. To revenge, avenge and dispel this animosity inside me.

And still I feel lonely and lost. I am an orphan in a city of brethren on this day. I think I did that to myself. Why didn't I set something up? Hook up with someone; meet for dinner, drinks...a candle light vigil...the reading of the dead. Joseph M. Giaccone, Vincent Francis Giammona (I've always loved the name Vincent.) Donna Marie, Jeffrey John and John Giordano (God, I hope they weren't related.) Scott Jordan Hazelcorn, Shari Kandell, Laura Maria Longing.... I think maybe that's what I wanted but I also think I was hoping to be found. For someone to think of me on this sorrowful day; to take care of me in an hour of need. That makes me chuckle. Laugh. And I rant and rail on guys for their passivitiy.

The dreams of giant seals with thick and dark brown fur portend great things for me but today I don't care. I emailed the "gentleman caller" last night. I told him what I really wanted to do this day was get really drunk and then get laid, but that is silly because everybody knows sex is never good if you get that drunk and I don't want to medicate with sex or booze. I didn't think so at the time but now I am wondering. Was that a come-on I was emailing? An invitation? Perhaps a big, red flag that I could be had on this desolate night? I say I don't want this guy and I think that is the truth. He was inattentive even when he was interested. I can only imagine the mess that scenario would be now that time and tide has cooled our affinity. Perhaps I was propositioning the Gentleman. Didn't want to screw things up with a guy I might currently be dating so why not schlep with someone wo is already screwed up? Nah. The truth is I knew he would think of it as proposition (whether it was or not) and run like hell. This city just isn't real today. It hurts so much. Maybe I should have gone to one of those candlelight, poignantly marketed remembrances.

I sent that email to the Gentleman Caller because it was the truth. It was how I felt at the time, how I still feel in burst and blasts of emotion and I needed to get it out or it might fester. The dangerousness of my current state is very real however veiled and silent. If I choose to voice it where I know there is nothing but a dead end well that's just "mother Meredith" protecting me. Thank you, Mother.

The names of the dead are there for all to see. Albert Ogletree, Philip Paul Ognibene, Beth Ann Quigley. No Noah Gartner (Praise Be.) No D. Rogers (Thank God.) No Tihomir Simeonov (Merciful Savior.) No Daniel Lucio (God in Heaven, thank you for that would have laid me low.)

Is this the sign of an alcoholic? Crying in one's martini? I hope not because I am not about to stop drinking. LOL. Now that is the sign of an alcoholic.

So today. Walking to work. Was beautiful. The sky was as blue as a technicolor movie with puffy clouds dotting the atmosphere like virgin balls of cotton straining to be drenched in the latest revolutionary cream or salve. A sky so blue and mellow like I don't think I have seen since frogs started growing three legs and the rivers became unsafe to fish. I didn't think we would get skies like that ever again. It would have been an idyllic day except for the massive blasts of wind. Gusts so hard you could walk without moving forward. Little tornadoes in the streets were full of eye-catching marketing materials and trash. Within the wind I felt the secret. There was an energy and spirit. 9-11-2002 was a sunny day and a new beginning. There was more than trash and marketing in those tornadoes.

The problem, the pall of the last year in NYC is that the dead were still here. Efrain Romero Sr., James Roux, Tatiana, Ryhova... You could feel them on street corners, hear them as the subways whirred and railed to reach their destinations. Susan A. Mackay waiting for a taxi on 53rd and 2nd. Kiran Reddy Gopu waiting for the train in Grand Central that would take her back to Bridgeport. Peter Alderman patiently waiting for his martini at Tao Bar. The ghosts have been haunting this city and mourning their loss and ours. They cry out to their loved ones as those so loved make their day-to-day journeys and then lash out at the futility of the endeavor. They whisper to this introspective New Yorker on a latenight trip to Port Authority. I could hear them sometimes but I couldn't understand the language. Frustrated, these ghosts of our fallen family would scream at us in actions. The flapping of a brave bird's wings tapping at your head. The anxiousness of a bat zipping past as he fervently searches for a place to hideout for the night. An unknown vendor for no apparent reason propelled to give a stranger a picture of the Wall Street Bull as she walks across 42nd.

The Winds of 9-11-2002 changed all that. I could hear the angels singing this day. The ghosts, so unsettled and restless this last year, were emerging from the site of that hallowed ground to rise to the next level in this esoteric evolution. Bruce had it right. It is The Rising. Our fallen heroes and families and citizens were rising up into the next light this day, 9-11-2002. If you couldn't see them you could certainly feel them. And the marketing, the remembrances, and the packaging of this unholy tragedy didn't matter. God had called for his army and his sons and daughters and that gusty wind, tornadoes full of trash, was lifting them up. They had lingered on this earth in such an altered state long enough. The Winds had come to take them Home.

And that's the harshness of this day and perhaps why I have been so resistant to its passing. Why I feel so incredibly lonely. Three-thousand spirits have left this city today and it makes a dent. Spirits mostly joyful and optimistic for the next leg of their journey. I want to be happy for them too. I am happy for them too. But they also mourn still. They are leaving mothers, fathers, lovers, sons and daughters, companions, friends and strangers here still to toil and celebrate, remember and live a life without them. That is a heartily painful and lonely thing. I miss those faceless names that I will never meet. Brethren I have lost without knowing. I'll never shake their hand, brush against them in a crowded subway, buy them a drink in a bar or share a blanket on a summer night in Central Park. Today I am consumed with this sorrow. Tomorrow I hope to be cleansed in their joy. Safe journeys to my brethren. Aum Namah Shivaya...I bow to God in you.

Posted by mermu at September 12, 2002 02:13 AM

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Posted by: Tim at November 27, 2003 06:16 PM

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