“Needless people are dying and suffering.”

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My therapist and I are talking about my post-traumatic stress disorder, specifically related to September 11. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, and that’s mostly because I’ve acquired a real taste for apocalyptic entertainment, whether it be my obsession with The War of the Worlds (the book or the movie); with the TV shows, LOST and the new, improved, Battlestar Galactica; or comic books like Y the Last Man (which, like Snakes on a Plane, tells you everything you need to know in the title).  

I have an inexplicable craving for the feelings that come out of losing everything like this—not in the Goth, “I-am-the-Crow” way, but in the way everything changes and there is a single-minded focus on survival. I think it might either be an almost addictive reaction to the extreme situations I was in, or it might be like looking at pictures of the World’s Ugliest Dog—it’s hideous and awful, but you have to keep staring.  

I don’t know. 

But since I don’t want to be too much of a bummer, let me tell you what happened this morning when my alarm clock made its horrible, daily yowling sound. When I reached over to pound on it with my fist like I always do, I was blocked by a fat black pussycat who was pressing his paws as hard as he could on the snooze button. That’s right, Magik was trying to turn my alarm clock off. These animals are getting too smart for their own good. Thank the heavens that Newcastle has a mind like a steel trap—that’s been left out in the rain for a week and beaten with a hammer. 

“He Had a Gunshot Womb.”

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It’s been nearly thirty months since it was declared “Mission Accomplished,” and over two thousand American soldiers have died in Iraq. Accurate numbers on the deaths of American civilians and American wounded are not forthcoming, nor are numbers for Iraqis, whether they be soldier or civilian, dead or injured. 

Today, Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald has left the press blue-balled again regarding indictments, but it’s clear he’s looking into the “Niger Yellowcake” memo—the one that many US Senators and Representatives claim made them decide, almost unanimously, to give the president war powers. 

Today, my baby sister, whose first word I still remember, whose diaper bag I carried, and who has gotten me as drunk—if not more so—than a bunch of twenty-and-thirty-something bar veterans in New York City, woke up in the deserts of Kuwait, fixing vehicles that are scheduled to drive through hostile anti-American towns without sufficient armor. 

Today, some young man who was born and raised under a brutal regime is going to wake up in a town surrounded by barbed wire, with no running water, being pulled out of his car by his liberators, who will wave guns at him and demand that he do things in a tongue he doesn’t understand. 

Today, some patriotic kid from a Jesus-fearing state in the middle of his country will find himself in a strange village halfway across the world from his mother, deciding whether or not to shoot the person in the car before him, with no way of knowing if it’s someone minding his own business, or someone who’s going to kill or maim him with plastic explosives hidden in the trunk.  

Today, I attended a candlelight vigil, along with one hundred and fifty other Bloomingtonians, honoring all we’ve lost since March of 2003 and earlier. 

War blows. 

So, all my regular readers (both of you), I need you to do me a favor and pray to whatever gods or goddesses you speak to, or meditate if you are your own God or Goddess, for some sanity. 

I’m feeling sad, as if you couldn’t tell. 

“Our People Are Just Ponds in the Game.”

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When Odin, the All-Father of the Aesir, Slayer of Giants, Ruler of Asgard, who drinks mead from the skulls of fallen foes, hung on the World Tree for nine days, who kept him alive?

A squirrel.

When you buy a bird feeder that is absolutely, positively, guaranteed for life, double your money back, to feed birds and birds alone, who ends up eating all of the seeds?

A squirrel.

When I was in college, thinking of the simplest way to describe Robin Goodfellow, the Puck, maker of the most foul mischief in all the fairy realms, who did I think of?

A squirrel.

And when I left my house this morning, strolling to my car, with the sun shining on a fine Monday, who leapt out of the rain gutter and tried to kill me?

A squirrel.

I’ve never trusted those little bastards, they’re up to something; tormenting dogs and teasing my cats through closed windows; stealing food from parkgoers’ hands; watching us with their beady little eyes; tapping into powerlines with their black paws and chirping at each other in their secretive, rodent language; hiding in their bases of operations within in the facades of trees; collecting acorns for reasons we may never know; and today’s failed assassination attempt has revealed to me that they’re finally making their move.

“Her Voice Sounded Just Like Mime.”

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Times change. Once, the boys and girls in school with their hair dyed black, or a neon shade of something unnatural; with faces that looked like they fell down a flight of steps with a tackle box; black corsets; Beetlejuice-striped socks; fishnet gloves; and white face-paint and heavy black eyeshadow were the dreary outcasts of midsized Western and Midwestern high schools. 

Now they’re the cheerful, self-effacing popular kids who rule the schools with Invader Zim merchandise and holier-than-thou pierced noses looking down at you. 

Recently, the teenage daughter of an old mentor of mine in Nebraska accused some of these monarchs of being fakes who buy their clothes from “Goth in a Can.” 

Which brings me to my point: she picked up that extremely clever phrase from my twenty-one-year-old cousin, in New Jersey, whom she has never met.  

Once, on a mallrat day in Central New Jersey (where being a mallrat is the official youth pastime) my cousin described the clothing and merchandizing franchise, Hot Topic, as “Goth in a Can.” I laughed my ass off, and used it whenever I could; which meant that I told my wife. She, in turn, said it to the teenage daughter in Nebraska in an effort to calm her popularity angst. 

And, thus, language travels. How fascinating. I’ve also been tracking the use of the word “Fucktard,” which I picked up from my Canadian friend, babybaby, and recently heard it being used by my wife’s friend, Thora, to describe some fucktard. 

So I’m intrigued. 

Mostly, I’m joyful today, but angry and pained at the slow progress of the book I’m editing, where the author, who I don’t think has ever had sex manages to write, “Her libido was in lust with him,” and, “He just gave in to this telegenic strumpet and tried to enjoy her having her way with him.” He also describes copulation, as well as both the male and female tools for such activities, as IT. Real mature. The worst, though, is how he manages to remove any eroticism from the act itself, in passages such as (warning, the following is not intended for the young, the weak of heart, or the weak of stomach): “He was drawn like a magnet to her voluptuously exposed vagina, which he consequently penetrated with the zeal of a teenager.” 

Gag. 

“For Dinner They Had Wine and Crap Cakes.”

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I’ve left most of the friendships I’ve cultivated in faraway lands, including one that had just started six months before I came here, and had the potential to be really incredible. Many of the departed friends seem to have forgotten about me, but others have kept in touch, and still other friendships have flourished. 

I live and sleep with the best (and sexiest) friend I’ve ever had. 

Her friends are, likewise, some of the coolest people I’ve met (a bit odd, at times, but aren’t we all?). Her Hometown Friend and I have formed a pretty good bond of comic books and silliness. I adore my coworkers, the Radio Guy and the Buff Hippie. 

I’ve been having meals and firepit chats with many of these new people, and having an incredible amount of fun with them. With my new life, I am happier than I’ve ever been; but I can’t seem to shake this weird disconnect from them. I can’t explain it.  

I don’t necessarily miss the fun and games of New York. But I miss the people I played with. E-mail isn’t the same. 

I seem to remember feeling this way in New York, before the fun and games. Maybe it’s just an adjustment period. I’m asking the runes, since their advice told me a lost (turns out she was sick) friend would show back up. They say “Mannaz,” in reverse, which I guess, is “Zannam.” That means I won’t find the clearing of my “blockage” from outside of myself; and to “Strive to live the ordinary life in a nonordinary way.” 

Sounds good to me. Feeling sad, but full of hope, which brings joy with it. 

“They agreed to a parting of the waves.”

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Dear friend,

I know I haven’t returned your phone calls, as difficult as it’s been for me. After the desperation in your last message, I wanted to dial your number and see how you were, but I can’t. I can’t be your friend anymore.

I’m sure you think it’s my wife’s idea, but it’s not. She’s merely given me the strength to avoid calling you back. We’re not the same people we used to be, and no matter how much time has passed since we met, I can’t let history define my relationships.

To put it bluntly, I don’t want to compete with you, but you leave me little choice when we’re together.

You insist on expressing your viewpoints, which are contrary to mine—and those most of the people I know. Normally, I wouldn’t hold this against you, but you are so pushy and downright mean with your beliefs. You belittle the intelligence of those who disagree with you, and the worst part is, you don’t even think you are doing it. You fully believe you have an open mind, but I listen to you parrot the opinions of blowhards and deny facts, and ignore me when I try to change the subject.

Being the Devil’s Advocate is in your nature, but the point of such a role is not to crush your opponent, but to strengthen them. I can be friends with and respect people with your public philosophy, but that is because they, in turn, respect people with my philosophy. It’s one thing to have a certain ideology, but it’s another to proclaim this ideology, then do nothing to support it. Your morality is inconsistent and shallow. I could rattle off examples, but that would do no good. You, in your own eyes, are never wrong.

Mostly, in regards to respect, I don’t see it in the way you treat others. You are pushy, selfish, and bristle against anyone who finds offense at your behavior. The thing that appalls me the most, these days, though, is your behavior towards women. Your chivalry is merely misogyny. Your interest in the welfare of the female species exists in entirely in the realms of their undergarments. You expect others to get out of your way if you’ve chosen a female, and you take any obstacle as a challenge, as if the person you’re pursuing is merely a prize. You’ve butted chests with me over the affections of one particular woman, not considering that I don’t look at her in a sexual manner, nor considering that she may not look at you in a sexual manner. And when we last saw each other, you asked a friend of mine to stay out of the way of another object of your desire, despite the fact that this “object” had no interest in you.

Over the years, we’ve been good friends. I’ve laughed in your company as much as—if not more than—I have with anybody. You’ve been loyal and consistent and honest with me at all times. That’s what makes this hard. I’ve thought long and hard about what it takes to be my friend, and I’ve found a few qualities to be non-negotiable. One is “Criticism.” My friends have to be able to take it constructively, and they have to dispense it to me when I need it. Another is “Respect.” Not just to me, or, as I suspect is the case is with you and I, to our history, but to my thoughts and beliefs, and the thoughts and beliefs of those I hold dear. You don’t have to like my friends, but I insist that you appreciate the fact that I like them. You don’t have either of those qualities.

It saddens me to say this, because you have been like a brother to me. But I don’t respect you anymore. You haven’t, and won’t, mature. I’ll always look back on our past with a smile, but I can’t say the same about the future.

Sincerely …

“Just like a New Yorker, she hauled a taxi.”

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We lost a lot on that day. We’ve lost even more since then. Nearly three thousand Americans died that day. Nearly three thousand Americans have since died in deserts prosecuting the war on terror. Countless men, women, and children in two foreign countries have lost their lives, their limbs, and everything they own. Today, I will mourn that. 

Forgive me. I’m being dramatic. 

As I believe you know, I was there when this happened. As fate would have it, I had left my hometown of Gallup, New Mexico after their newspaper decided they didn’t need my skills. I ended up in New York. Three years later, I saw print in The Gallup Independent with a piece I wrote from my perspective of these events, which have reshaped the world. 

***

September 11, 2001 

Before I moved to New York from Gallup, New Mexico, in 1998, a friend warned me that I was seeking my fortune in a terrorist hotbed. 

“Washington is the capital of the United States,” he said, “but New York is the capital of the world.” I hate it when he’s right. 

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I’d arrived at work a block away from the World Trade Center a few minutes early, and my biggest concern was beating my envelope-stuffing record of 484. My watch sat with my other personal belongings near the window, so I had no idea what time it was when the building shook. It didn’t matter, because I thought it was only thunder – particularly loud thunder for such a clear day. Our building was much too close to see anything, anyway. Without a phone or the Internet in my office, I decided to sit tight and start stuffing envelopes. 

It didn’t take long for someone to tell me a plane had hit one of the towers. Accidents happen, and I’d help out in any way I could, but my commute was officially ruined. While waiting for further instructions from building management, word reached us that a plane had hit each tower. My stomach tightened and the rational side of my mind reassured me it was just a rumor. This couldn’t happen. 

I called my girlfriend, Andrea, to let her know I was safe and would call her back as soon as I could figure out what was going on. Then they evacuated our building. On the way down fourteen stories of emergency stairwell, I idly wondered if the terrorists were herding us for something worse. Once outside, however, the thought left my mind the instant I looked up. 

The background monoliths—as much a part of life as the hogback hills on the eastern side of Gallup during my youth, or the grain silos just outside of town during my young adulthood in Hastings, Nebraska—burned. This couldn’t happen. 

After realizing my escape route would lead me near a cemetery, I kept my eyes to the ground. Unfortunately, this meant shuffling through growing mounds of ash, tattered insulation and unreadable memos. Finally, seeing a charred leather cell-phone case made me look up again. Paper which had been on desks or in filing cabinets fluttered out of twin clouds of smoke and onto the streets. This did happen. 

Focusing all of my attention to my legs, I closed my eyes and moved my left foot in front of the right, then the right foot in front of the left. I couldn’t afford to think. 

A few blocks north I ran into a fellow temp named Joe. I asked him what he knew, but used a lot of swear words to do it. He chose to stick around, and I chose to find Andrea. I still don’t know if he ever left. Somehow I made it several more blocks north, where, incredibly, a subway station accepted passengers. While I escaped underground, reading words in a book I can’t remember, the towers fell. 

When I found out about the Pentagon attack, it was right after an event that shocked me even more. A man at a phone booth had just apologized for taking a long time to make his call. In New York, that was about as common as finding parking at a Wal-Mart on payday. But in reality, that’s how we do things in New York. Sure, we all got our own problems, but when handed something of this enormity, they don’t matter. 

During the first part of the day, the only way out of Manhattan was on foot. After pedestrians crossed the bridges, they found chairs and bottled water being handed out by concerned shop clerks. By mid-afternoon, hospitals were turning away blood donors and volunteer workers. 

The Twin Towers were an important symbol of New York and the United States, but we are not those buildings. We’re human. Nobody can take that away from us. 

***

On September 11, 1906, Mahatma Gandhi instituted his nonviolent resistance to the British occupation of his beloved country. Today, I am going to celebrate that.