Ground Zero (or How I Stopped Having Hope for Freedom in America)

Ground Zero.

Most Americans will know what that means these days, I assume. If you are part of that tiny percentage of people who don't, I'm referring to the site that was, prior to 9/11/01 the location of the World Trade Center's North and South Towers. Now, it's just a couple holes in the Earth located in lower Manhattan. It's more than that. It's a Memorial to the lives lost there, and it's a really great place to take facebook profile pictures, AND it's got a gift shop.

No. I'm not kidding.
A fucking gift shop.

But I'm ahead of myself here. Let me start at the beginning...

When we arrived at the site, there was a chain-link fence wrapped in blue privacy fabric with the 911 Memorial logo (Yes. Logo.) waving gently in the breeze. The new towers, still under construction, loomed overhead against the sky, and there was a distinctly large police presence. A line looking remarkably like a queue at Six Flags awaited just beyond the velvet ropes. All visitors must have tickets to stand in line. It seems that one must secure a visit time and print tickets via the internet or some such nonsense - but there were attendants announcing that tickets were available at the gate for those not possessing them today, a somewhat rare occurrence it seemed. The memorial is not yet complete, but visitors are allowed to view the portions ready for public consumption. So with newly issued tickets in hand, we ventured down into the circuitous pathway, showing our tickets when prompted. Remember- ALL visitors must have a ticket, and it must be displayed until you are instructed otherwise. Sorry. Moving on...

So we wound our way around into the construction, and through several checkpoints before arriving at <cue fanfare> SECURITY. It looked a lot like the TSA screening area of your local airport. Remove all hats, glasses, belts, coats, bags... you know the routine. As I reached down to untie my shoes (That's a good citizen - do what you are trained to do), I was told I could leave them on. My bad. I was wearing steel toed boots. After passing through the metal detector and setting it off twice (I announced that I was wearing them), I was ordered to lift my pant legs up over the cuff of the boot for inspection. Then we were released into the line again, for two final checkpoints. The first was attended by a woman lining the ticket with magic marker (I assume to prevent reentry into the free exhibit OR to prevent me from passing my ticket to a terrorist waiting just on the other side of the fence). The second was just another bored guard, I believe.

Then we made out way down the cattle chute (STAY TO THE RIGHT) and into the Memorial plaza itself.  It's lovely. Two enormous holes in the ground, granite-lined, with waterfalls into a pool that drains into the center column. There is a wide rail engraved with the names of all those who lost their lives that day surrounding each of the two holes - one each for the two tower locations. Essentially, they are the footprints of the towers themselves, permanently vacant from the New York landscape. The light poles dotting the plaza are reminiscent of the towers in shape. Groomed trees are placed strategically throughout, crating a space that begs for reverence and thoughtful insight. However, the throngs of visitors are busy making sure that they are getting good shots of themselves for the family album or Facebook. It's noisier than I would expect, and the theme park atmosphere is juxtaposed against the somber browns and deep grays. People move about quickly, making sure to visit all four sides of each  depression. It's maddening to someone like me who has a very different idea of what respect for the dead means. Don't misunderstand, I'm all for a party for the dead. I'm all for celebrating the lives of those who have passed. But this was like setting up barker's row at a funeral home.  It just felt wrong.  Many visitors were doing the "Take our picture?" thing to others, smiling and making sure that the background clearly identified itself as the 911 Memorial. Sorry, ladies. Take your own damned pictures like so many of your neighbors are doing.

Ever visit the Viet Nam Memorial Wall? It's respectful of the reason it was erected. Same for the Korean War Memorial, and so many other places that mark tragedy in our world. I wonder if the USS Arizona Memorial feels like this?

I'd had enough. Personally, I think the towers should have been rebuilt. No matter what you believe was the real cause of the event, there would be no greater fuck you to those responsible than to get on with living. But no, we chose this instead.

We made our way out, following the instructions to STAY RIGHT, and followed the crowd. And the last stop was the "911 Memorial Visitor's Center" complete with GRAND GLASS WINDOWS displaying such wonders as the NYC PD custom motorcycle and banners ensuring that you knew where you were.

Into the glass doors we went. To the right, two large images of something related to the memorial, and to the left? Well, it was a gift shop. Tee shirts and shot glasses and books and all manner of collectibles ready to go back home with you. All sorts of things for you to remember your visit to the 911 Memorial.

Sorry gang, I believe that you got it all wrong. Tear down that Memorial and rebuild the towers. Let life get back to business as usual. And may whatever god help the first poor jackass I see actually wearing a 911 Memorial tee shirt. Raping the memory of the tragedy is not a great way to make sure we all never forget that day.

I mean, seriously - If this is so great, why not just have Sandy Hook School Memorial ashtrays?

I am angry about all of this. I am really pissed. And a big part of it is our willingness to just stand in line with our papers and be ready to show them when ordered. I'm angry that we line up at airports and take our SHOES off so we can be inspected and X-rayed and examined before boarding a plane. I am angry that I can have my regularly-sized tube of toothpaste that I was told to place in the provided bags thrown out, while a forgotten can of hairspray comes onto the plane with me.  I'm angry that we are slaves to regulation in the name of safety. I'm angry that the war on terrorism has been used to perpetuate the war on tourism. We are supposed to be free, remember?


Not so much anymore, I'm afraid.

Candles on the Cake

It's someone's birthday today.
Someone very special to me.
And she is happy.

And that is perfect.

She had a surprise meal and a cake of her own. She opened presents and cried with joy on my shoulder. She is beautiful and shining.

And I love her.

I pushed the candles in two groups into the top of the wonderfully rich cake and lit them. We sang Happy Birthday to her, and she smiled that smile into my eyes before blowing them out.

I got my wish, Sweetheart. Did you?


Happy Birthday, Jennifer.
I hope it was as wonderful a day as you deserve.

<3

The Dog, Wagged.

Breathe before you judge the words you will read here. 

What happened today was horrid. 

The way the media outlets handled it was worse. 

The fact that there is a logo circulating around Facebook for those who wish to use it as their timeline cover image is an abomination. 

A fucking logo. 

Some jackass felt the way to honor the memory of 28 dead men, women, and children was to create a Facebook logo and pitch it out there for everyone to use. 

In other news, another of my FB contacts posted a beautiful photo of waterfire, that wonderful gathering of the community. Of course, it mentions Jeff Buckley was singing "Hallelujah".  Really? Great song to honor the dead. "Maybe there's a God above / But all I ever learned from love / Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you" 

It's a horrible song sung beautifully, so I guess that makes it okay to use in every damned way that is touching, right? It's not a love song.

ABC had a live feed on their web site. It was updated every few minutes with alleged facts, later proven to be false. I listened to an NPR reporter on the ground who didn't report a single fact he couldn't verify for himself. I thought him to be useless at first, later I realized the journalistic integrity of it all. 

My heart goes out to the families affected, and I am saddened that it happened at all. I am thankful for the fact that my children are safe, or at least as safe as they can be in this world. 

I feel badly for those mentally troubled people who are unable to find a better way out than murder and suicide. I'd like to think that someday we will focus on caring for them rather than taking away our right to bear arms, but I refuse to go deeper into THAT argument. Suffice to say, we need a better way to care for the sick.

I'm just ranting, but I think you know how I feel.  There's so much more to say, but I'm having trouble saying it coherently. 

I'll take your abuse now, thanks. 

On Hardness and Temper

It's been a busy week.  One of my commutes was in the neighborhood of 3 hours long, and I believe my total for the week was just shy of 16 hours in the car which, to me even, seems a bit much for a non-vacation total. But such is life.

I was lucky enough to see Stephen King speak at Tsongas Arena in Lowell, MA on Friday. Mr. King is someone who has been with me for long enough to say that I can't remember a time when he really wasn't. From age 9 or so, he's been in my life in one way or another. And I finally had the chance to see him speak in a very casual setting that was appropriate for his conversational style. He suffered an interview for about half of an hour before sharing a deliciously "King" short story never seen before called "Afterlife". The following Q&A was fun, but short as these things tend to be, and the night was generally a great success.

The one rub was Andre Dubus III.

Introduced as "bestselling author of 5 books, and professor at UMass Lowell's English department", he wore his shirt open, collar wide, and his glasses low on his nose. At one point my impression was of Alec Baldwin in Beetlejuice, but that might elevate this commentary to full on bashing if I say that too loudly. In any case, he was more "Look at ME" than respectful of Mr. King. There was some familiarity between them as King had been part of a benefit for AD III's dad years ago, but even that felt forced and insincere. The camera used to send the stage video up to the jumbotron spent a lot of time on him early on, even when Mr. King was responding to the banter, and in my cynical, steeled eye I wondered to myself if he had mentioned something to the camera operators before the show. He was CO-SPONSOR of the event, you know.

But the rub, the abrasive, grating rub came when  Andre's forced laughter loomed thick behind Mr. King's comfortable voice. Stephen King welcomes you in to his home, he sits you down in the front room and helps make you comfortable before sharing his words with you. He receives you as an old friend and treats you with respect and honesty before plunging headlong into the story he shares with you. It's one of the endearing qualities of King's work that drew me in so long ago. His writes his introductions just for you, the reader.  I didn't truly expect his voice to have the same cadence and delivery when reading a story. I'm not sure what I was really expecting, but it was a lovely surprise that he read as I heard his voice in my head so often. But there, on cue like an actor in some horrible B movie, was Andre Dubus III's forced chuckle over and over again. Like a laugh track to Mr. King's auditory feast. His head leaned forward, his eyes closed, then, at the exactly right moment, he would throw his head back and laugh.

It's Stephen King, not Cracked Magazine for fuck's sake.

But there is was. Over and over, that laugh. I thought to myself later that King might actually put that into one of his books at some point. It seemed like one of those habits that a King character would have, so I'm going to keep my eyes open for it.


This leads me to look into my own life.
I've been a little less upbeat lately. I've been a bit more of my darker self. Edgier, grumpier. Less positive about things. I've let it creep in bit by bit. It's the commute, I think, or at least partly. I want to get home. I want to just get the fuck home and be able to unwind from my day, but I can't every night. Even when I'm South, my 32 minute commute becomes upwards of an hour. And that sucks.
It'll get better. I will make sure it does. I will accept that the traffic is what it is going to be. I'll dig out some books on tape and listen. I'll record my stories on tape or something and type them up later. I'll try. I can't be that guy again.

Not again.

To those who I impact with my negativity, I'm sorry.
Time to get back on the stick, as someone I love says.

And did anyone get the metal reference in the title? Just wondering.

The Second Free Thanksgiving

Already? It's here already?

How quickly the wheel of the year turns when you are busy living.  But here we are again, looking the holiday season squarely in the face and scratching our heads as to how it arrived so abruptly. Wasn't it just July? No matter. Another Thanksgiving means another blog entry, and you just never know how this is going to end up.

Seriously, *I* don't usually know how these things end. I have a little seed, I blurb out an idea or two, and I sit to write. It comes out of my fingers almost magically, and usually in a single stream of consciousness. My Muse grabs my brain and squeezes out words that seem to string together into sentences and paragraphs with little input from my waking mind. Where was I really, though?

Ah. Thanksgiving. 

It's been a year since I wrote my first entry from freedom. It's been a year since I thanked all of you for your friendship, your kindness, your love, and (if you are in the military in any way) your service to the country I love.  It's been a year since I returned to my own family's table and shared the meal without drama or worry. Last time, I shared a memory about my grandfather, and how he carved the turkey every year rather than my father. (just in case, it's here ). My mother explained why later that day, and I laughed when she did. My mother reads my blog. Oh my. 

Let me get back on track here, Muse. You are dragging me around town like a cab driver going the long way.

---

I have so very much to be thankful for this year. 

* My son. Oh, my son. Growing up and living in a world I bet he never thought he would ever live in. He's learning, though, and that's important. When he is older, he will look back on these times and know that they helped build him. I hate to see him go though such hardship, but I know he will eventually rise above it all. Strong and smart, but kind in heart. I'm glad he calls me now and then, too. It's nice to hear his voice.

* My daughter, resilient and growing. She's a beauty. The most Trumpet-playing-ist, Gymnastics-performing-ist, Hot-dog-ist daughter a guy could ever have. She's arty when it's art time, and she's dancy when it's dancing time. And best of all, she loves me. What more could a Papa want? She's bright and fun, and listens when it's listening time. 

* The family I'm actually related to, and the family I am not actually related to, including the families I am connected to through my loves. Even the family I don't see much (or barely at all, other than Facebook, and that's even hard to come by for me these days). I am thankful that they are still with me, and are still able to come together at the table. Old and new, and everyone in-between. You are all a part of me, as I am of you. For those I don't see nearly enough, please know that I want to see you, but our lives are so different that I truly don't know how. No matter, we sit together today, at different times and in different states, as one. 

I am going to single out my mother here. She's going to read this blog eventually, and I want to make sure she sees this in black and white. I am thankful that my mother does all that she does for her family. We give her a hard time, and we tend to say things like "You don't need to do all of this..." but deep down I know that she does. It makes her happy, and I like to see her happy. I am thankful for the chance to help pick up some holidays to host, but they will never be the same as what she put on.  Not better, not worse, but certainly different.  

* My car. My glorious chariot that carries me back and forth whenever I ask. Krähe could kick the crap out of Kitt and never even break a sweat. She connects the dots of my life. She is the pencil to my Funpad. She keeps me safe and gets me home, no matter where that happens to be.

* A steady job, and the ability to actually DO the work needed. 

* My Kittehs. All of them. Toady, Harpo, Pooper, and Meower. Ain't cats cool?

* For that particular person who got me to write all those years ago. That person who taught me about friendship, and  later about hookah. To you, I am ever grateful. (And I hope that you and yours have a grand day today!)

* And as always, My Loves. My beautiful, smart, strong, creative, caring, kind, daring, wonderful loves. They keep my heart safe, and my smile bright. <3

To anyone or anything I have omitted (not by intentional exclusion), I am thankful for you as well - Every single thing I have, every single thing I can do, and every single thing I can give.

---

I hope you all have a wonderful day no matter what you do. And I hope you know that no matter what that is, or where you are, you are at the table with me and mine today. We are all a part of each other. 

And I am thankful for that. 

Eyelash

There you are

Now you’re gone

There you are

Where... Where did you…?

There you are

Come here, my sweet

There you are

Closer, closer

Closer still

There you are

Wait

Where did you go?

There you

No.

Gone again.

There you are

I’m holding you now

There

You

Are

Gone

Gone

No

There you are

Right there

Right here

Where you belong

Gone

Here

There you are

Yes

Here we are

Blink

Are we real?

Are we here ?

Are we?

Yes

Blink

Yes

Here we are

There we are

There you are

Here

Blink

Not gone

Not there

Right here

In my arms

Never gone

Never there

Always here

Right here

Right where I can see you

Blink

I can see you

I can touch you

Blink

There we are

In my heart

<blink>

There we are.

Together. 

Alone in the dark, with myself.

I could not see in the dark, but I could sense the nearness of the thing there. I could hear the low drawing of breath, and could almost feel the bristled fur against my skin. How long should I wait before reaching out to it, before stroking it? How long would I last in the darkness against such a fearsome and ancient creature? I steeled myself against it, and rose to my feet.

There, in the dark, I touched something fearsome. There, in the dark, I braved the chance of never seeing the light again.

There, in the dark, I let ran my hand over the gnarled flesh, feeling the framework of bone beneath. I let the fur run between my fingers like blades of grass. I imagined lying in the sunshine, warm and sleepy, with my arms outstretched. I could almost smell the earth beneath me, could almost see the blue skies above. I remembered the feeling of slipping away into slumber, unburdened by fear.  But that was a long time ago. I had let the fear grow into this that lie before me – A beast of its own, fanged and clawed and dangerous. I came down here when I was feeling comfortable in life, stroking the fear awake and watching how it still writhed in the greasy black. Fear, and nothing more.

In the gloom, the fear was almost beautiful. A glorious, wretched thing I nurtured and tended in the depths of my mind, now vibrant and powerful. Fear without reason, without cause. Fear that had no logical place in my life, yet it gathered and formed with a ferocity that surprised me.  Now you have these fears, too. They might not be the same as my own, but they are formidable beasts all the same.  Do you venture into that night and stroke them? Do you wander bravely into their lairs and coax them out into the brightening sky?  I do. I need to understand them.

And they need to understand me.