Words cannot express...
Sep. 9th, 2003 01:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuriteI'm not exactly sure how to put all this into words. But let's start with the basics. Today is Tuesday, September 9th, 2003. Two days from now, it will be September 11th. It used to be just a normal date on the calendar, but now it's one of those "down in history" dates, like those famous battles during the Civil War that you have to memorize for AP US History.
Two years ago, I didn't care for school all that much. I don't know why I suddenly started slacking off, not finding motivation in anything. I guess it could be blamed on a lot of things, but I can tell you I certainly didn't make a good start of the year by "being sick" all the time. I was "sick" on September 11th, 2001. I had a horrible headache, and this icky, sick feeling in my chest-- but I wasn't hacking up anything, nor was I dying. So, I probably should have gone to school. And then, been stuck in that stupid bungalow with all my other too-brainy (save Eva, she's not snotty about her intelligence) classmates, staring at a crappy TV, watching the same thing over and over again-- two boeing 747s ramming themselves, all within 16 minutes of one another, into the World Trade Centers' Twin Towers.
So tonight I just finished watching the 8th and final part, or addendum, even, of the American Experiences' "New York." It's a moving documentary, and I'd never seen the previous 8 parts. I just flicked on the TV at 9 o'clock for whatever reason, found the "History Detectives" show interesting, and then decided to stay tuned for another 3 hours.
And it took until the last hour of the program before I really felt any sort of attachment-- other than maybe sheer journalistic curiosity, maybe-- to what was on. On September 11th, 2001, I didn't cry. I didn't care. I was sick of trying to watch my shows, and coming up with the same "disgusting" scenes, over and over again. It was things like that that made me hate the broadcast media-- there's a reason why Americans are so plugged full of fear all the time, the reason why Americans seem to think "no news is good news." While Americans glorify everything else, the media suddenly becomes a viper ready to strike-- we're all bad, all evil-- but people still want to be in the spotlight, on the news, in the media. Except, of course, in times like this. Those. Whatever.
It wasn't until that last hour that I really felt anything at all... call me Kazuo Kiriyama if you will, but there was just nothing there. The story of a dream, a capitalistic mind-fart, the idea that was the meshing of a billion dollars and a lot of manpower. And it went up. And it was hated. People really don't pay much attention to anyone or anything until it's gone, do they? It's a sad human trait.
But in that last hour, they showed things that I'd never even seen on the news. And I don't know why I kept watching-- I mean, I didn't know anyone that died in 9-11. I've only been to New York, two, maybe three times. I didn't grow up there, I have no attachment. There was a time when I really wanted to live there, but... I guess it was a dream I smothered. So why then, in watching that documentary, did I start to cry?
I don't cry much. Barely cried at my own sister's funeral. Sort of blocked it out. I try not to cry a lot, because I've got the ridiculous idea (hah, says my conscience) in my head that it's weak. It's pathetic, and it's a vulnerability that will allow others to take advantage of you, manipulate you. And maybe that's true. You can manipulate people in tears just as much as you can manipulate people with tears, though. That's not my intention.
Maybe I'm psycho, with all my weird dreams, that odd intuition of mine. Maybe it really is just peach cobbler gone to my head the wrong way. You know, we know less about our own brains than we do the sea and space? Why is that? Can we ever answer the quissintential question, "WHY do we dream?" No really, WHY? But it's just weird, the things I find myself thinking, dreaming, knowing, asking. And I was watching this show, unable to really tear myself away, and in my head (or maybe in my imagination, who knows, there could be a whole stadium of voices in there) I heard this huge multitude of voices-- "Mommy..." "Dad..." "Sis..." "My brother!" "My wife..." And countless others. All these voices, all these accents, all these vocal levels, decibels, everything all at once, all these people, crying out for those they lost. And I was watching this show, listening with half an ear to this narration. I watched the buildings come down in a matter of 10 seconds, watched a cloud of dust envelop lower Manhattan. Thought to myself, 'I didn't lose anyone... but why does it feel like I did?'
I think the most horrifying part wasn't watching all those people cry, or wave candles and pictures-- maybe not even seeing so many hundreds of MISSING posters up on various polls throughout the city. I think it was watching the shadows-- only tiny silhouettes, really, of people, falling, twisting and turning in impossible ways...
The sick part is, I get this flashback from this great fic-- "School Daze," the one I'm writing the doujinfic for? There's a part where Kagome's terrified of being inside a Ferris Wheel, and Inuyasha pretty much sees right through her fear-- says, it's pointless to be afraid of heights-- you don't fall from hitting the ground, after all, but from breaking your neck in the fall.
So I'm watching this, and his words come back to me, and I'm seeing these bodies twist and I'm thinking, "Oh god." And I think of my sister, falling 200 feet from Land's End. And that's supposed to be some sort of tourist attraction!? Yeah well, the WTC was supposed to be an ordinary work place... maybe the tallest buildings in the world, but...
There was this part, about a fireman. He asked some of the construction workers if they could hold off piling some dirt on the debris (to make way for trucks) because he was sure that, in this one pile, his son was in there. HIS SON! I can never know that pain, I guess. Mom and I had this argument/talk tonight about how packratty she is. I brought up the fact that she places far too much sentimentality in things that used to be Michelle's-- and I said, it's not the things that count, it's the memories. Becuase even if you start to lose them, or you can't remember them all, the experience is inside you ANYWAY. Always has been, always will be. She was being picky about a darn Sassaby Caboodles box! She made me move Michelle's ratty old dresser into the sunroom, even though that tiny place (that used to be my bedroom) is already packed with crap. And Mom yelled right back at me-- You don't know how it feels, to give life to someone, and then to have it torn from you like that!
And you know what, I hope I never will. I guess that's a bad thing to wish for. You know, they say (whoever 'they' is) that most little girls, at one time or another, dream about marrying a handsome, rich guy who will love them and take care of them, and they will have kids, and... well, it's the disgustingly too-perfect all-American dream, and I'm sure all of us know that behind the Hollywood-sparkles and the Photoshop-touchups, life just ain't that pretty. No matter how much they try to appeal to us, there's always some dark, dank, and dirty place that no camera's ever willing to go. It's probably not your local alleyway or street corner at 3am, just our own insides-- our own brains, hearts, and imaginations.
I became a real cynic after my sister died. I wasn't sure whether to believe in a god or not, whether to trust myself or anyone else, whether feeling anything was actually worth half the effort. Because you know, once you really LOVE someone or something, someone rips it out from underneath you, and then laughs their ass off as they watch you tumble down a rockface, bleeding the whole way, and then finally DIE! *sigh* I'm too dramatic, I know. I didn't actually experience any of that loss that happened... but you know? 2,797, or however many it was... I have this to say to that: ANY is TOO MANY. Don't get me wrong, I'm not on a crazy, let's kill trip now... but if I'd been there in 2001, I wouldn't have left... dust or no dust, fire or no fire, even if I hadn't had family... you can't just be there (or in my case, not be there) and not cry, not feel what everyone else felt. Even though I wasn't there, half of me can 'remember' a sensation-- digging through mounds of dirt and still-warm steel chunks... pieces of concrete and dust. And looking, looking, looking. Desperation, need. I don't know, something reminds me of that bile-going-up-your-throat feeling, or, oddly enough, one of those downy-feathers brushing against you. An odd feeling, it's the only way it can be described. Choked.
I hugged myself because there was no one else there. The program ended at 1am, and Mom's been asleep for hours now, I'm sure. Even with her odd cleaning spree. To be perfectly frank and honest, I really miss Lonnie, more than I ever thought I would. I won't call him though, I don't need to. I hope I don't need to. In any case, I just know that WHEN (not IF, WHEN) I see him again, I will smile as best I can and give him a huge hug. You should go and do that now. To whoever. To your roommate, to your dog, to your stupid drunk father, whoever. Hug your Care Bear. Hug your pillow, hug your bishounen. Hug your shower curtain. It needs love too.
And on September 11th-- while all the people that died may not be heroes... merely tragic victims of unfortunate circumstance? An entire fire department died. Normal people, mothers, daughters, sons, cousins, husbands, wives, fathers, brothers, sisters... the Mayor was right-- it is more than we can bear, but as they've been saying the past two years, we'll get through it. Somehow, this isn't just a New York thing, or a American thing. It's an US thing, a WORLD thing, a "people" thing. I'd like to think I'm not so charged with fear to go and grab a gun and shoot the first person I see. We're all about getting bigger, building taller, achieving what seems impossible, right? We're humans, we're horribly dumb and incredibly smart all at the same time! All we need in a religion-- "love your neighbor," and "together, make this planet better."
:) I love my friends, each and every one of them. Thank you for reading this.
Two years ago, I didn't care for school all that much. I don't know why I suddenly started slacking off, not finding motivation in anything. I guess it could be blamed on a lot of things, but I can tell you I certainly didn't make a good start of the year by "being sick" all the time. I was "sick" on September 11th, 2001. I had a horrible headache, and this icky, sick feeling in my chest-- but I wasn't hacking up anything, nor was I dying. So, I probably should have gone to school. And then, been stuck in that stupid bungalow with all my other too-brainy (save Eva, she's not snotty about her intelligence) classmates, staring at a crappy TV, watching the same thing over and over again-- two boeing 747s ramming themselves, all within 16 minutes of one another, into the World Trade Centers' Twin Towers.
So tonight I just finished watching the 8th and final part, or addendum, even, of the American Experiences' "New York." It's a moving documentary, and I'd never seen the previous 8 parts. I just flicked on the TV at 9 o'clock for whatever reason, found the "History Detectives" show interesting, and then decided to stay tuned for another 3 hours.
And it took until the last hour of the program before I really felt any sort of attachment-- other than maybe sheer journalistic curiosity, maybe-- to what was on. On September 11th, 2001, I didn't cry. I didn't care. I was sick of trying to watch my shows, and coming up with the same "disgusting" scenes, over and over again. It was things like that that made me hate the broadcast media-- there's a reason why Americans are so plugged full of fear all the time, the reason why Americans seem to think "no news is good news." While Americans glorify everything else, the media suddenly becomes a viper ready to strike-- we're all bad, all evil-- but people still want to be in the spotlight, on the news, in the media. Except, of course, in times like this. Those. Whatever.
It wasn't until that last hour that I really felt anything at all... call me Kazuo Kiriyama if you will, but there was just nothing there. The story of a dream, a capitalistic mind-fart, the idea that was the meshing of a billion dollars and a lot of manpower. And it went up. And it was hated. People really don't pay much attention to anyone or anything until it's gone, do they? It's a sad human trait.
But in that last hour, they showed things that I'd never even seen on the news. And I don't know why I kept watching-- I mean, I didn't know anyone that died in 9-11. I've only been to New York, two, maybe three times. I didn't grow up there, I have no attachment. There was a time when I really wanted to live there, but... I guess it was a dream I smothered. So why then, in watching that documentary, did I start to cry?
I don't cry much. Barely cried at my own sister's funeral. Sort of blocked it out. I try not to cry a lot, because I've got the ridiculous idea (hah, says my conscience) in my head that it's weak. It's pathetic, and it's a vulnerability that will allow others to take advantage of you, manipulate you. And maybe that's true. You can manipulate people in tears just as much as you can manipulate people with tears, though. That's not my intention.
Maybe I'm psycho, with all my weird dreams, that odd intuition of mine. Maybe it really is just peach cobbler gone to my head the wrong way. You know, we know less about our own brains than we do the sea and space? Why is that? Can we ever answer the quissintential question, "WHY do we dream?" No really, WHY? But it's just weird, the things I find myself thinking, dreaming, knowing, asking. And I was watching this show, unable to really tear myself away, and in my head (or maybe in my imagination, who knows, there could be a whole stadium of voices in there) I heard this huge multitude of voices-- "Mommy..." "Dad..." "Sis..." "My brother!" "My wife..." And countless others. All these voices, all these accents, all these vocal levels, decibels, everything all at once, all these people, crying out for those they lost. And I was watching this show, listening with half an ear to this narration. I watched the buildings come down in a matter of 10 seconds, watched a cloud of dust envelop lower Manhattan. Thought to myself, 'I didn't lose anyone... but why does it feel like I did?'
I think the most horrifying part wasn't watching all those people cry, or wave candles and pictures-- maybe not even seeing so many hundreds of MISSING posters up on various polls throughout the city. I think it was watching the shadows-- only tiny silhouettes, really, of people, falling, twisting and turning in impossible ways...
The sick part is, I get this flashback from this great fic-- "School Daze," the one I'm writing the doujinfic for? There's a part where Kagome's terrified of being inside a Ferris Wheel, and Inuyasha pretty much sees right through her fear-- says, it's pointless to be afraid of heights-- you don't fall from hitting the ground, after all, but from breaking your neck in the fall.
So I'm watching this, and his words come back to me, and I'm seeing these bodies twist and I'm thinking, "Oh god." And I think of my sister, falling 200 feet from Land's End. And that's supposed to be some sort of tourist attraction!? Yeah well, the WTC was supposed to be an ordinary work place... maybe the tallest buildings in the world, but...
There was this part, about a fireman. He asked some of the construction workers if they could hold off piling some dirt on the debris (to make way for trucks) because he was sure that, in this one pile, his son was in there. HIS SON! I can never know that pain, I guess. Mom and I had this argument/talk tonight about how packratty she is. I brought up the fact that she places far too much sentimentality in things that used to be Michelle's-- and I said, it's not the things that count, it's the memories. Becuase even if you start to lose them, or you can't remember them all, the experience is inside you ANYWAY. Always has been, always will be. She was being picky about a darn Sassaby Caboodles box! She made me move Michelle's ratty old dresser into the sunroom, even though that tiny place (that used to be my bedroom) is already packed with crap. And Mom yelled right back at me-- You don't know how it feels, to give life to someone, and then to have it torn from you like that!
And you know what, I hope I never will. I guess that's a bad thing to wish for. You know, they say (whoever 'they' is) that most little girls, at one time or another, dream about marrying a handsome, rich guy who will love them and take care of them, and they will have kids, and... well, it's the disgustingly too-perfect all-American dream, and I'm sure all of us know that behind the Hollywood-sparkles and the Photoshop-touchups, life just ain't that pretty. No matter how much they try to appeal to us, there's always some dark, dank, and dirty place that no camera's ever willing to go. It's probably not your local alleyway or street corner at 3am, just our own insides-- our own brains, hearts, and imaginations.
I became a real cynic after my sister died. I wasn't sure whether to believe in a god or not, whether to trust myself or anyone else, whether feeling anything was actually worth half the effort. Because you know, once you really LOVE someone or something, someone rips it out from underneath you, and then laughs their ass off as they watch you tumble down a rockface, bleeding the whole way, and then finally DIE! *sigh* I'm too dramatic, I know. I didn't actually experience any of that loss that happened... but you know? 2,797, or however many it was... I have this to say to that: ANY is TOO MANY. Don't get me wrong, I'm not on a crazy, let's kill trip now... but if I'd been there in 2001, I wouldn't have left... dust or no dust, fire or no fire, even if I hadn't had family... you can't just be there (or in my case, not be there) and not cry, not feel what everyone else felt. Even though I wasn't there, half of me can 'remember' a sensation-- digging through mounds of dirt and still-warm steel chunks... pieces of concrete and dust. And looking, looking, looking. Desperation, need. I don't know, something reminds me of that bile-going-up-your-throat feeling, or, oddly enough, one of those downy-feathers brushing against you. An odd feeling, it's the only way it can be described. Choked.
I hugged myself because there was no one else there. The program ended at 1am, and Mom's been asleep for hours now, I'm sure. Even with her odd cleaning spree. To be perfectly frank and honest, I really miss Lonnie, more than I ever thought I would. I won't call him though, I don't need to. I hope I don't need to. In any case, I just know that WHEN (not IF, WHEN) I see him again, I will smile as best I can and give him a huge hug. You should go and do that now. To whoever. To your roommate, to your dog, to your stupid drunk father, whoever. Hug your Care Bear. Hug your pillow, hug your bishounen. Hug your shower curtain. It needs love too.
And on September 11th-- while all the people that died may not be heroes... merely tragic victims of unfortunate circumstance? An entire fire department died. Normal people, mothers, daughters, sons, cousins, husbands, wives, fathers, brothers, sisters... the Mayor was right-- it is more than we can bear, but as they've been saying the past two years, we'll get through it. Somehow, this isn't just a New York thing, or a American thing. It's an US thing, a WORLD thing, a "people" thing. I'd like to think I'm not so charged with fear to go and grab a gun and shoot the first person I see. We're all about getting bigger, building taller, achieving what seems impossible, right? We're humans, we're horribly dumb and incredibly smart all at the same time! All we need in a religion-- "love your neighbor," and "together, make this planet better."
:) I love my friends, each and every one of them. Thank you for reading this.
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Date: 2003-09-09 11:53 am (UTC)^^;;
Date: 2003-09-09 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-10 10:30 am (UTC)Guess so...
Date: 2003-09-11 12:54 am (UTC)