“and what’s the future, who will choose it?
politics of love and music
underdogs who turn the tables”
- Dar Williams
I am already so sick of talking about this war that I could spit, yet I can’t seem to escape it. The images of crumbling buildings, sharp buckling steel, a sheet of smoke. People dangling from windows and then dropping, dark and heavy. Buildings giving up, their shoulders falling in, their knees dropping to the street, wilting. I imagine the slow, sick descent, hiding in the blackness beneath a strong oak desk, maybe living in that prison for days. Breathing in bits of powdered cement as the dogs search the thousands of tons of wreckage above.
Perhaps this is insensitive to say, but I follow the old adage that you rid yourself of something only by speaking of it. Maybe if I say it enough these images will not cut my mind so sharply. Dr. —– told me a few days ago that children and some elderly have trouble with time, so with every clip of that morning new buildings are collapsing in their understanding. But she also thinks that somewhere, on a more primitive layer, we still have the reasoning of children, and so there is a part of us that does not understand replay. I believe that. I believe somewhere a little corner of me is scared, silent with terror, convinced all the important buildings in America are dropping one by one by one.
I wonder where my little pint of blood is now. Just one more plastic package of O+ to throw at a trauma, someone bleeding out, someone pulled up from some tangle of a burnt building. All this careful, self-important cycle from heart to lungs through limbs, all this oxygen-gathering.
Everyone screaming for a bloodbath in Afghanistan makes me very sad and very nervous. I don’t know what the answer is, and I don’t pretend to. But I wish I felt like someone is trying to make a moral decision in all of this. That someone up there in the lofty halls of government is thinking about the innocent people there too, is weighing their hearts in the balance pan. (And not finding them lighter than American hearts, any less human.)
More and more it is futile to shape this dread with words.