Back on the air, and London, and Stuff
OK, technical and lack of motivation faults, we've been down for a while, and now are back, so here we go.
Note number one. Not to arouse the curiosity of the special forces or anything, but I feel a need to note a smacking coincidence. I was en route to Madrid on March 11, 2004. I was en route to London on July 7, 2005. Which has no meaning, or some meaning, depending on how you look at it. I did, however, get a chance to view the reaction of both cities first-hand.
In Madrid, a million-person march of solidarity along the Paseo de la Castellana. In London, quiet determination.
You've read the stories, and can judge for yourself what, if any, significance that fact has.
Me, I'm content not to judge. Tears, I've shed more than my share over these attacks, and September 11th, and Bali, and the others. My tears are for everyone and everything. They're tears of pain. Tears, often, of cowardice.
Pain for who and what's been lost. More for what, actually, because although I've been affected, I've not lost anyone close to me. The what -- now that's a good question. What is the what that's been lost. Is it innocence? Is it just complacency cast as innocence? Damned if I could tell you. Damned if I can sort this all out. I'm just like everyone else, searching for meaning where there may just be none to be found.
Cowardice? Hell yes. I don't fear for being killed in an attack. If your number's up, it's up, and though a lot of people will say that, I really believe it. No the fear is of a horrible aftermath. Not just the carnage, although I've had one too many bad dreams about a city -- let's call it "New York" -- and a bomb -- let's call it "atomic." There, I said it. Can't take it back now. But no, it's not the carnage that turns my belly yellow. It's what will -- would -- could happen after. It's the tanks. It's the martial law. It's the "fuck all y'all" devil-may-care attitude that would come after something like that. This shit keeps me up at night. All night, sometimes, when I'm alone. It's just too tangible to me, the one who at age 16 nightmared of a solemn Charles Kuralt broadcasting, matter-of-factly, "The world is over."
I must think about it at night, in my subconscious, because my conscious mind is all together too tightly wrapped to really think about this for too long without wanting to change channels. To "The Simpsons" perhaps. Yes, what are Homer and Bart up to? Pass me the remote, please.