9/11/11
im listening to npr (national public radio's) special broadcast for this day.
lovely. beautiful music. folks are calling in to share
their thoughts, memories of 9/11
i heard someone say recently that americans don't have rituals.
well they might be wrong. i am so moved by
the music playing in the back ground:
now its an adaggio -- not sure of the title who the composer is
earlier a vocal titiled "hallalujah".
there is hope for this world.
at least today we can be one in our memories
of what happened ten years ago.....
of course there is so much more beyond
this day, this moment, this country.
and the truth of 9/11 remains for many
a conspirator theory, but beyond this,
suffering continues. human made.
im looking forward to a better world.
one day at a time
we're alive and have so much to be thankful for ==
family, friends, strangers we encounter,
we give them a smile, a dime.
like nora the homeless woman who was panhandling
outside the supermarket in my hood.
it was around midnight i stopped to talk to her,
to hear her story, how did she land up on the street?
i put a few dollars in her palm and moved on. she
was so grateful, "you a bad sister", her voice fell behind
me, as i walked home through the soft warm
late summer night.
and then there was the young muslim woman who i
met early one morning ,a few weeks back.
she was picking in the garbage can in the
front of the building next to where i live,
rifling through the glass to retrieve empty bottles.
i said, "asalamu alaikum". she smiled. i said
wait i'll be right back. i want to give you some money.
i crawled up the stairs to my fourth apartment. on my hands and knees
like my friend's two year old boy jj does when he comes
to visit me, i was so overwrought
with pain, sympathy, compassion for this woman.
as i handed her the money, she threw her harm around
my neck. thank you she whispered in my ear.
right now, today, "knock, knock knocking on heaven's door is playing on
the radio. its performed by nirvana.
open up, open up... the music fades
do we say happy 9/11.
hum, i don't think so...
whew!
love.
moi
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
9/11 A running Commentary: The Frozen Zone
September 26, 2001
"Kim Darling,
Thanks for indulging me in reading all my emails, hoaxes, forwarding of forwards, and things of a spiritual nature you've received from me since September 11..."
September 9, 2011
A new page of American history began that day when I wrote this email to my friend who was living in Milan Italy. In New York ,we kept telling ourselves that things are not what they used to . We'd say, "When things get back to normal." We've even tagged the enormous and insurmountable tragedy that occurred 9/11. A simple phrase that encompassed the enormity of our grief and incomprehension of what happened on that bright beautiful blue sky morning in New York City that immediae turned to hell and all its unimaginable darkness in less than five minutes, I think it was.
Three weeks later, I am down at the Frozen Zone on Greenwich Street in Tri-Beca. Two of my daughters are with me. We immediately became part of large crowd standing behind a police barricade and staring down six blocks to get a glimmer of the remains of the first tower of the WTC. In the waning light of the day, as the sun began to drop quickly out the sky, I managed to see a black smoking 'something', sticking up out the ground. It appeared to be not of this world., smouldering way down the street. It was an ominous sight. A foreboding one at that, resembling, what I imagined a meteor (or is it meteorite?) might look like had it crashed to Earth.
It was a scene out of Hell, or a Hollywood movie: "Blade Runner", came to my mind that evening. All the while no one spoke. We stood there in the fading day light, stunned. in silence being in the moment and the next one and the next.
Time, had given us permission to be witnesses to History.
Moi,
Mahmoudah
"Kim Darling,
Thanks for indulging me in reading all my emails, hoaxes, forwarding of forwards, and things of a spiritual nature you've received from me since September 11..."
September 9, 2011
A new page of American history began that day when I wrote this email to my friend who was living in Milan Italy. In New York ,we kept telling ourselves that things are not what they used to . We'd say, "When things get back to normal." We've even tagged the enormous and insurmountable tragedy that occurred 9/11. A simple phrase that encompassed the enormity of our grief and incomprehension of what happened on that bright beautiful blue sky morning in New York City that immediae turned to hell and all its unimaginable darkness in less than five minutes, I think it was.
Three weeks later, I am down at the Frozen Zone on Greenwich Street in Tri-Beca. Two of my daughters are with me. We immediately became part of large crowd standing behind a police barricade and staring down six blocks to get a glimmer of the remains of the first tower of the WTC. In the waning light of the day, as the sun began to drop quickly out the sky, I managed to see a black smoking 'something', sticking up out the ground. It appeared to be not of this world., smouldering way down the street. It was an ominous sight. A foreboding one at that, resembling, what I imagined a meteor (or is it meteorite?) might look like had it crashed to Earth.
It was a scene out of Hell, or a Hollywood movie: "Blade Runner", came to my mind that evening. All the while no one spoke. We stood there in the fading day light, stunned. in silence being in the moment and the next one and the next.
Time, had given us permission to be witnesses to History.
Moi,
Mahmoudah
9/11: A Running Commentary
9/18: Timing
The days drag on. The warmth of Septmeber contradicts a city that has suddenly turned cold.
In the blur of unreasonable times, grief is the counter point of the rah, rah, rah of patriotism. Red white and blue is the new black -- the color scheme of tragedy. Candles set up in makeship altars burn in every doorway. Melted wax covers the sidewalks. Pushcart vendors sell liberty in every form and fashion: tee shirts, baseball caps, umbrellas, scarves, pictures of the former World Trade Center. Enamal replicas of Old glory are worn proudly on the lapels of men in suits.Their gaits are more lumbering then strutting as they disppear into office towers, now amped up with more security guards, asking for thier identification cards, and their mother's maiden name at the gate. Everyone is suspect now.
Flowers shamelessly wilt on the street corners like tired whores. Photographs of missing persons, letters and notes, are posted on every conceivable surface: Buidlings, fences, trees, lampposts and meeting my eyes, every step of the way as I walk through the mournful surrealism of the New York.
At home, white candles sitting on my mantle offer a flicker of hope. I study the globe and imagine where my family and I might go to live. The Caribbean? My neighbor suggests New Zealand as such a place. This is surreal. My minds spins back to WTC which I've seen more of in recent months since Adger and I have become an item. His studio in Tri-beca is not far from there. Like many, I have never admired the architectural design of those buildings. Recently I walked by them and said to myself, "God they should tear those things down!" The power of words.
Where are ubiquitous disembodied "They' we speak of who we think can solve our problems, when we are actually the ones we are looking for (say the Hopi Elders).
It was about six months ago. I was at the WTC to attended a black and white tie event at Windows On The World. I wore a black dress. Bag. Shoes. The affair was in honor of famous people who were born in the Bronx. Malik couldn't make it due to having to film "New York Undercover." I went to represent him. I was seated between two sons of the borough: Regis and Bronx Borough President Freddy Ferrer, whose a mayoral contender now. Regis chidded me for being too young to have a son so old. Funny guy. Ferrer was politically polite.
On Tuesday 9/11 at 9 AM , Malik and were scheduled to be at the WTC. The women we were to meet with was busy, and rescheduled our meeting for the next day.
Timing.
The days drag on. The warmth of Septmeber contradicts a city that has suddenly turned cold.
In the blur of unreasonable times, grief is the counter point of the rah, rah, rah of patriotism. Red white and blue is the new black -- the color scheme of tragedy. Candles set up in makeship altars burn in every doorway. Melted wax covers the sidewalks. Pushcart vendors sell liberty in every form and fashion: tee shirts, baseball caps, umbrellas, scarves, pictures of the former World Trade Center. Enamal replicas of Old glory are worn proudly on the lapels of men in suits.Their gaits are more lumbering then strutting as they disppear into office towers, now amped up with more security guards, asking for thier identification cards, and their mother's maiden name at the gate. Everyone is suspect now.
Flowers shamelessly wilt on the street corners like tired whores. Photographs of missing persons, letters and notes, are posted on every conceivable surface: Buidlings, fences, trees, lampposts and meeting my eyes, every step of the way as I walk through the mournful surrealism of the New York.
At home, white candles sitting on my mantle offer a flicker of hope. I study the globe and imagine where my family and I might go to live. The Caribbean? My neighbor suggests New Zealand as such a place. This is surreal. My minds spins back to WTC which I've seen more of in recent months since Adger and I have become an item. His studio in Tri-beca is not far from there. Like many, I have never admired the architectural design of those buildings. Recently I walked by them and said to myself, "God they should tear those things down!" The power of words.
Where are ubiquitous disembodied "They' we speak of who we think can solve our problems, when we are actually the ones we are looking for (say the Hopi Elders).
It was about six months ago. I was at the WTC to attended a black and white tie event at Windows On The World. I wore a black dress. Bag. Shoes. The affair was in honor of famous people who were born in the Bronx. Malik couldn't make it due to having to film "New York Undercover." I went to represent him. I was seated between two sons of the borough: Regis and Bronx Borough President Freddy Ferrer, whose a mayoral contender now. Regis chidded me for being too young to have a son so old. Funny guy. Ferrer was politically polite.
On Tuesday 9/11 at 9 AM , Malik and were scheduled to be at the WTC. The women we were to meet with was busy, and rescheduled our meeting for the next day.
Timing.
Running Commentary
The People
Friday
Four days ago the world was what it was. Its changed. How did it come to this?
Demarcation lines in Manhattan have been drawn further uptown. Can't drive south pass 42 Street. Tunnels and most bridges are closed. People can't go home. I can't go into the city to shop in SoHo. I hate the fashions this season. Can't find a thing to wear. Searching for simple pair of shoes I like, is as challenging as climbing Mt. Everest.
I need something for climbing and running and hiding and thinking and wondering and worrying.
We we are the huddled masses coming to our own shores of redemption and forgiveness. We pray, we chant. Missives of encouragement from friends near and far, fly over the Internet. All circuits are busy. Phone calls to family and friends when you are lucky to get through are priceless.
We are at war. Whose the enemy? Will we win?
We have depended on the Government Men to take care of us for so long, now they have abandoned us like sometime fathers do.
We are, all of us, The People now.
Friday
Four days ago the world was what it was. Its changed. How did it come to this?
Demarcation lines in Manhattan have been drawn further uptown. Can't drive south pass 42 Street. Tunnels and most bridges are closed. People can't go home. I can't go into the city to shop in SoHo. I hate the fashions this season. Can't find a thing to wear. Searching for simple pair of shoes I like, is as challenging as climbing Mt. Everest.
I need something for climbing and running and hiding and thinking and wondering and worrying.
We we are the huddled masses coming to our own shores of redemption and forgiveness. We pray, we chant. Missives of encouragement from friends near and far, fly over the Internet. All circuits are busy. Phone calls to family and friends when you are lucky to get through are priceless.
We are at war. Whose the enemy? Will we win?
We have depended on the Government Men to take care of us for so long, now they have abandoned us like sometime fathers do.
We are, all of us, The People now.
9/11 A Running Commentary
Day Four: At War
It was a night of thunder, lighting tossing, turning and pulling on more blankets to stay warm.
The rain is still falling. Hard. Relentless. Crying.
My first thought: We are at war. The world is not the same. I am not the same.
"We should have a plan of action. We just can't sit here and wait to see what will happen next." I told my daughter yesterday.
I tare at my brain, attempting to come up with a solution to the situation. We have three cars among us. There is a house up in Vermont we can go to and stay for a while -- just until this "thing" blows over. We can take a laptop, money and food. Leave here for a while.. "Buy more water" she said.
We have more water than we need. The work at Ground Zero will be difficult . Dust turned to sod -- a watery grave of twisted steel, bodies burnt beyond recognition, rendered in hundreds and thousands tons of sorrow and grief.
I want to wake up from this nightmare.
Four days have gone by. I count and loose count of the hours. Who knows the actual count of the missing and dead? Who will ever know? Where will they take the remains after they have been sifted and sorted and investigated? Questions? Too many that can't be answered.
I watch the news. Thought I'd see my boy friend Adger with his camera in the crowd taking pictures. He lives near the towers. He called after the first tower was hit. He'd ridden his bike all the way uptown. Stayed over at a friends. Was leaving there to go back home. Why?" I asked. Had to brush his teeth he said.
We spoke again on Thursday. He had managed to slip behind the police barricades and got into his studio. He said that it really smelled bad downtown. That he had to tape his windows shut. The smell -- that's what we can't see on television.
Today, we the people -- the terrorist and the terrified, hold this self-evident truth that is so looming and frightening. My thoughts plummet my mind/heart like the rain that won't stop.
They said it would last for hours -- the rain. We are at war, I keep telling myself. My memories trample over each other and pour out onto the terrain of the day. I remember when I was very young, my mother would tell me things that had happened before I was a thought, as she'd say, or too young to recall. She often spoke about World War Two. The sound of her voice comes forward from the deepest recesses of my mind, "You were a War Baby, you know." In my innocence, I thought this made me special.
It was a night of thunder, lighting tossing, turning and pulling on more blankets to stay warm.
The rain is still falling. Hard. Relentless. Crying.
My first thought: We are at war. The world is not the same. I am not the same.
"We should have a plan of action. We just can't sit here and wait to see what will happen next." I told my daughter yesterday.
I tare at my brain, attempting to come up with a solution to the situation. We have three cars among us. There is a house up in Vermont we can go to and stay for a while -- just until this "thing" blows over. We can take a laptop, money and food. Leave here for a while.. "Buy more water" she said.
We have more water than we need. The work at Ground Zero will be difficult . Dust turned to sod -- a watery grave of twisted steel, bodies burnt beyond recognition, rendered in hundreds and thousands tons of sorrow and grief.
I want to wake up from this nightmare.
Four days have gone by. I count and loose count of the hours. Who knows the actual count of the missing and dead? Who will ever know? Where will they take the remains after they have been sifted and sorted and investigated? Questions? Too many that can't be answered.
I watch the news. Thought I'd see my boy friend Adger with his camera in the crowd taking pictures. He lives near the towers. He called after the first tower was hit. He'd ridden his bike all the way uptown. Stayed over at a friends. Was leaving there to go back home. Why?" I asked. Had to brush his teeth he said.
We spoke again on Thursday. He had managed to slip behind the police barricades and got into his studio. He said that it really smelled bad downtown. That he had to tape his windows shut. The smell -- that's what we can't see on television.
Today, we the people -- the terrorist and the terrified, hold this self-evident truth that is so looming and frightening. My thoughts plummet my mind/heart like the rain that won't stop.
They said it would last for hours -- the rain. We are at war, I keep telling myself. My memories trample over each other and pour out onto the terrain of the day. I remember when I was very young, my mother would tell me things that had happened before I was a thought, as she'd say, or too young to recall. She often spoke about World War Two. The sound of her voice comes forward from the deepest recesses of my mind, "You were a War Baby, you know." In my innocence, I thought this made me special.
Friday, September 9, 2011
9/11 A Running Commentary: Here in Brooklyn September 12, 2001
Utter Fear: 9/12/01
Today we must do something -- pray, give blood.
We are scared and scarred. Even those of us who are safe and have not lost loved ones in the tradegy are in mourning. Phone service is iffy. Its impossible to get through to anyone beyond the city. Email has been the best way to stay in touch. We are/I am safe for now. The day will continue to roll out new findings. We will take them as they come.
The commerical airplanes that usually crisscross the sky on their way to LaGuardia and JFK airposts are part of the humdrum of life here in Brooklyn. You get use to the sound after awhile. The roar overhead today is the sound of fighter planes -- a clear reminder of what occured yesterday. On the ground, we atempt to go about our lives normally, but these are not normal times. As much as we would like for things to remain the same, they hvae been inalterably changed.
I attempt to push away the visions that threaten to relilinquish me to utter fear: Army tanks from a foriegn country rolling down my streeet, soilders crashing into my apartment. Food scarcity. Water poisoned. Darkness everywhere. This is real/imagined/possible.
Two weeks ago, I was feeling teary. I had attributed this to the change of the season -- my downhill tumble to Fall. We are in a seaon of no return. My tears come and go over the simplist things now.
Today we must do something -- pray, give blood.
We are scared and scarred. Even those of us who are safe and have not lost loved ones in the tradegy are in mourning. Phone service is iffy. Its impossible to get through to anyone beyond the city. Email has been the best way to stay in touch. We are/I am safe for now. The day will continue to roll out new findings. We will take them as they come.
The commerical airplanes that usually crisscross the sky on their way to LaGuardia and JFK airposts are part of the humdrum of life here in Brooklyn. You get use to the sound after awhile. The roar overhead today is the sound of fighter planes -- a clear reminder of what occured yesterday. On the ground, we atempt to go about our lives normally, but these are not normal times. As much as we would like for things to remain the same, they hvae been inalterably changed.
I attempt to push away the visions that threaten to relilinquish me to utter fear: Army tanks from a foriegn country rolling down my streeet, soilders crashing into my apartment. Food scarcity. Water poisoned. Darkness everywhere. This is real/imagined/possible.
Two weeks ago, I was feeling teary. I had attributed this to the change of the season -- my downhill tumble to Fall. We are in a seaon of no return. My tears come and go over the simplist things now.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
9/11:A Running Commentary
September 11, 2001 Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.
Past Present Future
Taking heed from the moment by moment breaking news about what has occured in lower Manhattan this morning; that's still unraveling and unclear as to who and what done it, I walk over to Myrtle Avenue, the shopping strip in my neighborhood. There I will buy candles, water, canned tuna, sardines and other canned goods that can be eaten out the can at the Korean Bodega and to withdrew money from the bank. These precautions are in case everything goes down. In the meantime, my neighbor downstairs has rushed over to another part of Brooklyn where her son and my grandson go to school to bring them home.
I was born in the mid 1940s and grew up in 1950s. It was a time of Senator Joe McCarthy a right-wing Republican's witch hunt for Communists hiding under the bed, the A-Bomb Scare and watching black and white World War Two movies, starring Audey Murphy Yellow and black signs indicating bomb shelters are "Here", I am well informed about what to do when you're under attack.
Given the circumstances of the day that continues roll out in undulating shock waves of horror and stagnatingly awesome truth, I suggest to my landlord that he unlock the door to the basement in our building. "We might have to go down there for shelter," I reason He chuckles.
While shopping for supplies to hold us over until this 'thing' blows over, in a sudden burst of inspiration, like birds set free from a cage, out of my mouth flies, "Did you know that the end of Manhattan Island has bad vibes? I can feel it when I am there?. I am directing my opening line and eyes to a woman -- a virtual stranger whose the only other person in the store besides me. She's standing near the dairy section, The owner, is in the front of the store, gaurding his cash register.
I continue. " It was once a place of terror. It was African Slaves whose white owners had them build a wall to keep the Indians out, so they couldn't attack them and steal their money ? That's where the name Wall Street comes from."
My unsolicited history lesson rings out in the store like a shot in the dark, and begins to fall like mist spraying over the bunches of collard greens, kale, spinach and mound of red cabbage. The woman now gives me an indicipharal nod, a juandice eye and twist of her mouth, as if to say,"What are you talking about lady? She moves on and begins picking over tomatoes on the vine.
Between her quizzicle look , and the owner's happy smile, which supplants for his limited knowledge of the English language, I wedge in, "They shouldn't put office buildings there anymore. A park for peace to redeem the area's dark past, would be a better idea, I believe."
.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
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