Welcome back my friends...

...to the show that never ends.

The site's been quiet for the past few days, not out of some moment of silence, not out of protest. Instead, I've been pre-emptively hiding from media, any media...which is a neat trick when you consider I work at a newspaper. It's almost two weeks before America gets all nostalgic and gnashes its teeth and tears at its John Ashcroft-covered breast over Sept. 11 one year later. As I said, I work at a newspaper. I know what's coming. I know what assignment editors are planning in a daylong orgy of remembrance pieces. I swear to you: hide. If newspapers are more restrained than cable TV, then I urge you to unplug the TV or rent movies all day for Sept. 11. If my editors at my paper are giving any indication, 9/11/2002 is going to be an orgy of Hallmark moments and sound bites about What The Attacks Meant To You.

That's right. No context. No questions about policy. No examination of evidence linking the attacks to Saudi Arabia. Nothing. Just profiles of the men and women of the military, some cops, some Muslims, some airport workers, some voices from regular people picked by beat reporters because they look like they'll give good quote.

Plus, my heart's not been into blogging lately. I've been running into a crisis about what I want this blog to be about. I feel like it should be going somewhere, perhaps an extension that I should be going somewhere in my life. I haven't been churning out fiction snips lately, as you can tell. I've been a bit struck as a writer, just scribbling down flashes of inspiration when they flare on the edges of my mind. It doesn't help when you reading "The Grapes of Wrath," arguably the best American novel. You can't help feeling a bit inferior pawing through Steinbeck's prose, especially when you realize that he didn't have an iMac or Spellcheck or the fact-gathering tool of the Internet at his disposal, which means to me that he created the scenes and dialogue in his head long before he pounded out the words. Of course, I'm forgetting the rewrite process and that Steinbeck has awe-inspiring material to work with, namely the plight of Great Depression-era Dust Bowl farmers who were driven off their land and risked everything on the sunny promise of a new life in California. Reading great works should inspire me to write better, not cower. I should have more faith in myself. I do enjoy writing. I love the idea that in front of me is a blank text slate (in the old days, it was paper, but I digress) which I could fill with drama, humor, action or boring technical descriptions. And you, the writer, has to balance everything out, ever-choosing the correct words, setting the pacing, tightening logic loopholes and trying to get to the end under your own steam. It's a recipe of sorts...I'm just trying to boil water some days.

But that's not to say that I haven't been writing. My poet friend Cori and I have been exchanging positively Rubenesque e-mail about how we are dreading the upcoming 9/11 anniversary. For the past week, I've been trying to put my thoughts into words and having little luck. When I write to Cori, it's different. I'm a more free when I write to her, probably because she won't post what I think on a blog. Maybe it's because she's a friend, and people speak more freely with friends. She'll also let me rant about politics and current events in ways that my wife doesn't care for. It's a tricky peace agreement my wife and I have: I don't rant about politics, she doesn't roll her eyes so hard her contacts get swallowed by her brain.

But Cori and I have been touching on nearly everything about 9/11, past, present and future. Over the next few posts, I'm going to try to share observations we made as part of my response to 9/11. Be forewarned: I swear randomly and I'm going to go hard against the popular grain.

To begin, here's a story I got out of USA Today (of all places) which helps set the mood. Apparently, I'm not the only one (outside of Cori, I suppose) who doesn't want to revisit old wounds.

In short: I'm tired of living in a culture where I'm not allowed to forget. Ever. The cable news channels would like to change the topic, but they have such yummy footage. Wouldn't we like to see it again? And again? And some more?

One of the sickening things about this upcoming anniversary (and there are plenty, let me tell you) is how it'll be invariably used to position the U.S. for another war so Americans can commit more carnage in the name of the long dead. I wish the dead peace, as I wish for the living. I do not need to be reminded of carnage. Or fear. Of hideous columns of smoke in Manhattan claiming brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, sons, daughters, friends, lovers and all the other tethers that connect us to society. Allow us to be solemn, allow us to be alone, to be silent. We don't need replays, we need time to heal and time to understand. Don't tell us how to mourn. Don't show us the "official" ceremony, as if one location is the sanctioned way, place and time to grieve.

Amen.

French Word of the Day

comme il faut (kum eel foh): "as it should be"; in a suitable manner; socially correct behavior