Thanks to all the listers who have posted/called me privately to express
their relief that I'm OK and to express their condolences, especially Ric,
Patrick and Roberto, whom I haven't had the time/brain space to answer
individually. The last few days have been very hard. I've learned of many
miracles and also many tragedies. It seems that Divine Providence or
Something had a hand in many people's lives on Tuesday morning -- the number
of people I know who were running late, overslept, etc., etc., is amazing to
me... there was some special energy helping people along, gently nudging
them out of the way of the most intense danger. As it stands now, "only"
about 4700 people are unaccounted for. That in itself is miraculous. It
could have been 25,000 or more.
I am shell shocked. I am leaving for Maine today for a few days to spend my
birthday with my family. Yes, my birthday. I was dreading getting older.
Now I'm thankful to be alive. Kids playing in the street today made me jump
out of my skin (the skateboards sounded like jet engines for a few seconds).
When kids playing in the street make you gun shy, it's time to check out for
a little while.
I have some thoughts to share, so bear with me.
I have 2 housemates, Jim and Laen. Last weekend Laen and I had a huge
disagreement. She threatened to move out; I basically said, "fine, don't
let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." Last June she moved here
from Miami and she needed work and I got her a job at Aon, my old company.
A job on the 104th floor of 2 WTC. Tuesday morning at 9:15 Jim and I (who
were both in the heart of the financial district and were in considerable
danger ourselves) talked on the phone and we discussed how on earth we were
going to tell Laen's parents. We were sure that the news would not be good.
As I hurried home on the Brooklyn Bridge, in an emotionless yet panicked
state, I thought that it was only by the grace of God that I was not in that
tower. Only 2 weeks earlier and I would have been. And at that point I had
no information -- just the sight behind me of a plume of dust and ash that
signified where the towers should have been. And I thought that no one on
the upper floors of either tower had a chance. No way. And I thought that
if by some miracle, Laen made it out and all 3 of us were fine, then the
only possible response to such a miracle would be forgiveness. Any other
response would seem to be spitting on God or whomever/whatever is running
this show.
Miraculously, Laen made it completely unharmed. She had worked out in the
Marriott gym in 1 WTC and left there at 8:45. She walked through the
concourse towards 2 WTC -- during which time the 1st plane hit 1 WTC,
unbeknownst to anyone in the concourse. She made it up to 104 of 2 WTC --
where she was greeted by the sight of blown out windows and flames from 1
WTC licking into her department's offices. She turned back immediately and
made it to the ground in the elevators. She was a few blocks away when the
2nd plane hit 2 WTC. She made it home before either Jim or myself. She
also ran across the Brooklyn Bridge -- ahead of the debris cloud that kept
me and Jim cooped up in our offices for hours.
I was up all night Tuesday and into Wednesday, frazzled and sick with worry;
eventually I heard that everyone in my small graphics department at Aon had
been accounted for except my friend Liz, who was known to have been on 105
in an early morning client meeting that day. I was sure she had died. Then
Wednesday afternoon I learned that she was OK. Liz's escape was truly
miraculous. When she was told about the fire in 1 WTC (people didn't
realize yet that it was a plane), she immediately ran to the stairwell. The
woman who was conducting the meeting insisted on continuing the meeting, as
it was "just" 1 WTC and "this was New York" and "they would be OK." Plus
this meeting was for a multimillion dollar account with a pharmaceutical
firm. That woman is now "unaccounted for" as is everyone else who was in
that fucking meeting. Liz ran down to the 75th floor or so -- when an
announcement was made that the building was secure and that everyone should
return to their desks. People actually listened. Liz screamed at them not
to listen, that they needed to leave. People told her, "oh I'm just going
to get my phone. I'm just going to get my bag." Liz told me that at times
she was the only person who was walking down. At other times, she was alone
in the stairwell. She got down to about 65 when the plane hit. All the
others had walked straight into the inferno. She ran and ran -- in high
heels -- in a building that was falling apart around her. She made it out
with seconds to spare: she was only a few blocks north of the tower when it
collapsed. So many people that she and I knew could have been spared. It
truly boggles the mind to have the tragedy compounded by such senselessness.
I have been contemplating that piece of paper with the Aon logo that I saw
on South Street as I ran for the Brooklyn Bridge. I have been contemplating
how everything that all of us worried about -- would the project be done on
time, did we win the account, was so-and-so rude and nasty, were our
political positions safe, ad nauseum... it's all gone. None of it fucking
matters. It's all over, it doesn't exist anymore. Who fucking cares about
the Pfizer meeting now? All the people who thought that making money was
more important than taking common sense precautions are now dead because of
their miscalculation. I learned yesterday that a huge Aon department which
filled the entire 92nd floor, I learned that they were ordered by their
managers to stay put. Apparently, some people with proper gumption ignored
them, left and got out. But from what I can understand now, many people
stayed -- and they had to have been immediately vaporized by the plane,
which took out floors 87-93 simultaneously. Many of my friends were on that
floor.
Impermanence. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. All the material attachments
we have, all the ego attachments (the need to be right, first and foremost)
we have, all these are meaningless. Attachments are rarely about the
present; they are almost always about the past or about our ego's
projections into the future. And as I've written before, all I need to do
is climb up onto my roof to have the ultimate lesson in the value of living
in the present. It can all be whisked away in an instant. As I've
described before, I keep seeing the towers, I keep traveling through the
halls on "my floor," I keep visiting all the people I knew. I can feel and
hear my footfalls on the carpeted floor of 103. I can feel the slight rise
in the floor on one corner where I would frequently trip when I wore one
particular pair of shoes. I can sit down in my friend Arlander's cube and
relive the laughs we had as if they never ended. I can see the northward
view through the windows. I can even see the reflection of the fluorescent
lights on the window and the view beyond the reflection. I cannot seem to
fathom the schism between the fact that all these things live in my memory
so vividly, so tactilely, and yet none of it exists anymore. It simply
doesn't exist. So it occurs to me that if it is possible for these things,
these real experiences of mine to live so vividly in my memory and yet I
have solid undeniable proof that these things no longer exist, then perhaps
I need to consider the possibility that much of the pain I carry around in
my soul is no less illusory. All the reasons I can't forgive my father, all
the reasons I hold myself back in my music career, all the reasons I am
afraid of relating with other people... all these things are bullshit.
They're all illusions. So how can I possibly remain angry at my housemate?
I can only be thankful that she is alive, that all of us are alive. How
could I possibly spend any more of my time and energy focusing on the
disagreements that Liz and I had when we worked together? I am so grateful
that she is alive, and almost losing her put all her positive qualities into
sharp, brilliant focus. I admit that I am struggling with anger at the
people who told others to stay put when they should have been evacuating.
But ultimately I have no choice but to conclude that they were only human,
and had they understood what was happening -- as no one did at the time --
that they would have acted differently. And I can only be thankful that Liz
and others like her had the strength of will and tenacity to ignore the
voice of authority coming through that loudspeaker and get themselves out.
I can tell you that all the squabbling, retaliation and hair splitting on
this list seems silly, petty, unimportant... illusory. What counts is that
the community exists -- for the moment, in the moment. I have felt my share
of anger towards Marcel over the years. He is indeed an arrogant,
overbearing, egotistical ass. But that's only because of some pain he's
carrying. And he doesn't have the sense or the compassion or whatever not
to lash out at others in sometimes underhanded ways. More than anything, he
seems to need to be right. But he's also a wonderful musician who clearly
lets something beautiful come out of his soul when he plays. I assess
Marcel not in a superior way. I have my own problems relating to people.
There are moments I wish I could take back. A small example: Sunday night
at Ashara's, I was wigged out to find that someone had borrowed my guitar
without my permission. I was upset, thinking that this was the only nice
guitar I had, this guitar is my performing guitar. I asked Les Ross to
return it to me when he finished playing. I wish I could take that moment
back. Just earlier that day I had had a beautiful time with Les and Steve
P. on the beach. How could I be upset at Les? What reason had he ever
given me not to trust him with an instrument? None, but I was attached to
the idea that the guitar was mine, dammit, completely losing sight of all
the generosity that I had benefited from the entire fucking weekend. I felt
ashamed; so much so that I left the room. If I owned a VG-8 like Paz, I
don't think I would have been letting everyone play it like Paz does -- but
then he doesn't seem to be too worried about those things. I could stand to
take a page out of his book.
Everyone who is upset at Marcel has a right to be -- but he also has a right
to be forgiven. I know he has behaved badly. As have all of us at one
point or another in our lives; as have many of us right here on this list.
But perhaps if people could find it in their hearts to express love to him,
they might be surprised by what they got back. How would we all feel if we
got the news tomorrow that Marcel had died unexpectedly? Would we take
comfort in the "fact" that "we were right," or would we feel remorseful that
the last words he received from this community were angry ones? Just a
thought.
Love,
Kay
np: NYC's version of silence
