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at a certain point you can't write or talk or think about it so much. i think that's happened with a lot of us that've been blogging over the past week, but it's still there. i walked home from the subway tonight and could still see smoke rising from downtown, eight days later; it still comes up in the majority of your daily conversations with others; it's sealing itself into the background pattern, bgcolor, ground bass, whatever you wanna call it, of life.
i made it to church tonight for a brief service—the holy eucharist, a homily, prayers of the people, and the peace. during the prayers, which were modified to include prayers to those who are still lost and those searching for them, there's a pause where anyone in the congregation may add names. i said my friend's: "larry"
i was nervous because i'm not much of a public speaker on any scale, and after i cleared my throat it came out like a question. larry? like, should i be saying your name here, as if i don't really think that we've already lost you? then i finally cried for the first time since this all happened. i hate crying, and i managed to not make any sound, but i felt my eyes burning and tears tearing down my face and squeezed my eyes shut and nodded my head down to not make a scene. i wasn't the only one, because i could hear other people having hushed but jagged moments to themselves too. it sucked, but it was good to get it out, and not to get on a bible kick, but good to think about others' experiences with mass violence and hatred and their survival through it.
so, let go because i'm afraid to try. i'll keep my hands by my side. i won't come back. i hope someday you'll understand. i want to try and make it right, but i don't know if i can. last night, everything was right and the rain was gone.
- the get up kids, i'm a loner dottie, a rebel
posted September 18, 2001 in delivery. 2002