Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

And not a man of them that we shall take shall taste our mercy.

Since Thursday:

Had another root canal. Went to a bachelor party and performed an old Guns and Roses song on a karaoke stage. Went to a wedding ceremony. Saw old friend Liz. Danced. Took Monday off and watched movies.

So much for trite self-reporting.

Horrors.

My head is a collage of pain and disbelief. Media images of slow-moving planes disappearing behind smoking towers and producing Michael Bay explosions. Red. Orange. Black. America as an androgynous, blank human being bleeding severely, eyes wide surprised, gasping for air. Adrian Veidt [1]. Angry others beating me senseless for the color of my skin, the months ahead that will destroy David Letterman. The fine-print lists of casualties that I will scan for names I may or may not know or have heard before, the Dead Actors Reel at next years’ Oscars, a body tumbling end over end from the first tower, a towel being swung over, and over, and over again for a rescue that cannot come, the way that White House handlers caged the anger of our President, distinguishing him from the fury of Tony Blair, a man whose countenance was so much King Henry V as to make me want to follow him anywhere, to do anything he asked of me. A global red card on the play. The evils of so-called Muslims in the streets of Palestine, the regret over the CIA’s long-lost assassination prerogative. Underbooked flights minutely lessening tragedy. The loathing I feel when I am forced to accurately describe the attack as brilliant and the added loathing when I wonder why it was merely as brilliant as this. The blood donation line I will not stand in for three hours despite my need to do something. The murder of a skyline. The briefest moments of Dan Rather’s humanity, of repeated questions about security procedures that will remain unanswered, and the possibility that maybe they continue to ask because one day they’ll find a schlub who doesn’t know the proper doublespeak. The quietude of downtown Chicago after ten o’clock AM. How you can still buy hot dogs and a magazine while you wait for the FAA to affirm flight security. Voices I don’t hear enough asking if I am all right.

I am all right. Today is all wrong.

[1] If you don’t know who Adrian Veidt is, read “Watchmen.” Suffice to say Adrian Veidt is responsible for an act so horrific it united [2] the world.

[2] Due to an accident, I realized that “united” spelled sideways is “untied”.

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This entry was posted on September 11, 2001 by in Life, Politics.