I don’t know

An article about my friend Doug has appeared in today’s Richmond Times-Dispatch.

Douglas D. Ketcham’s last known phone call was to his parents in Florida.

“Doug was a friend to everybody and had a quick sense of humor,” Riley said yesterday. “He was a Christian and just stood for everything that was good. He was a gentleman.”

The article contains stories on many other people as well.

I’m not feeling as personally decimated as I was yesterday. I finally talked with my mom about what I was feeling, and she helped restore a small bit of rationality. After all, it’s not like I was in one of the buildings. It’s not like I was ever in any physical danger personally. Not that my feelings aren’t valid, but — well, my fear was starting to become amorphous and overwhelming. Talking with my mom helped it become more manageable. She told me I’m getting way too immersed in the coverage. She told me I need to see my friends again. I already knew that, but she’s right.

And so I’m going home today. Tonight I’m going to hang out with CanadaGirl, presumably in Manhattan. I need to be normal again.

And then on Monday I’m coming back here to my parents’ house for two days because it’s going to be Rosh Hashannah, the Jewish New Year. I don’t know quite what to expect from the holiday this year. But it will be nice for our congregation to come together and listen to the rabbi’s words. It’s something we’re going to need.

My dad finally got home at almost 2:00 this morning. His company chartered his colleagues a small Lear jet. They flew from San Francisco to Allentown, PA, and then took a van home from there. My dad and I had one of the biggest, longest, strongest hugs we’d ever had. He was glad to be home, obviously, and I feel better knowing that he’s back here.

From a superb article by Frank Rich in today’s New York Times:

This week’s nightmare, it’s now clear, has awakened us from a frivolous if not decadent decadelong dream, even as it dumps us into an uncertain future we had never bargained for.

Our desire for vicarious battle, the one commodity a stock market bubble couldn’t buy, also explains the fetishization of World War II.

War.

Despite the liberal cast of my demographics (my sexual orientation, my religion, my geographic location), I’ve never considered myself to be a far-left kind of guy. I’ve always thought of myself as merely a left-of-center moderate. I’m not particularly anti-war. I think we need to retaliate somehow. I don’t think war is bad if it will prevent future terror.

But I do think we need to be careful. Who knows if we’ll succeed in preventing future terror. We probably won’t, in fact. We won World War II only to have to fight the Cold War. The Law of Unintended Consequences. Humanity is both a remarkably wonderful species and a remarkably horrible species. Yin and yang. We’ll never be able to eliminate evil completely.

We have to be careful in whatever we decide to do. We have to separate war-as-catharsis from war-as-instrument. Despite the fact that a majority of the country wants it right now, I’m wondering if things will begin to change if the bodybags start coming home. On the other hand, after Tuesday’s destruction there are already at least 5,000 bodybags waiting to be filled with the innocent dead. Maybe things really have changed. Maybe we really are ready. I don’t know.

I just don’t know.

Before we go to war, we have to realize what we might be in for. I’m not against going to war in principle. It’s just that I just hope our “fetishization of World War II,” as Frank Rich put it, through movies and television and Tom Brokaw’s books, hasn’t inured us to what war really means.

We can’t just sit on our hands and spout touchy-feely I-love-humanity platitudes anymore. I’m sorry, but that’s not going to help. “War is not the answer,” you say? That’s a bit too trite and simple. This is the way the world works.

But before more lives are lost — the lives of even more friends and family members and possibly our own — we have to make sure we know the costs, and the consequences. And we have to make sure we know what the hell we’re doing, and what our goal is. We can’t do it just for catharsis.

Remember the Law of Unintended Consequences. It’s going to come back to haunt us, whatever we decide. Such is the universe.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

None of us know.

What the Fire Did

At some point you just kind of wonder what else there is to say. But I’ll try, because I have to.

It’s starting to seem that the hellish fire that burned the World Trade Center to the ground also did something to us as a people, as a nation, as a world. It was a cleansing fire. It’s cleansed away so much of the bloated aimlessness and purposelessness of our country and of our lives. It’s burned away all the fat. Our nation feels lean right now. We feel lean. Lean and focused.

There’s no more crap on TV anymore. No more stupid reality shows, no more banal sitcoms. Everything on television is suddenly very real, relevant, vital, heartwrenching, scary.

Remember the days, long, long ago, when the entire resources of the news were focused on some guy named Gary Condit? Remember when life was happy enough that we could afford to think about such things?

Remember the 1990s? Remember the decade when the most pressing issue was whether the President of the United States had lied about having an affair with an intern?

Remember all the hoopla about the sports superstar who was on trial for murder?

Remember when we were so lighthearted and silly that these seemed like pressing issues?

Boy, were we innocent then.

Remember less than a year ago when Florida was counting and recounting its ballots, and although we knew that it was important, we also knew on some level that the nation would survive, that in a sense everything was going to be okay, that our nation was stable and at peace, that we were fortunate enough to live during times in which could afford to have such a crisis?

I think future historians are going to see the 1990s as similar to the 1920s. Such a stupid, peaceful decade.

Remember how Bill Clinton was always so concerned about burnishing his legacy? Well, I suspect that he’s going to go down in history with the same reputation as Herbert Hoover. He’s going to be seen as the guy who did for terrorism what Hoover did for the Great Depression. People are going to look at him and see that there’s so much he could have done that he didn’t do. They’re going to say that his overriding fear of American military casualties and his general military timidity caused all of this to happen. That he was too soft

But it wasn’t just him. It was us. We were all too soft. It was the times we were living in. We were living our decadent, fat, prosperous lives, and there was no way we would accept military casualties. We won’t stand for it! Life is so good. The economy is booming. We can communicate with people around the world with this Internet thing. We’re the only superpower on earth. We’re at peace and we always will be. We’re happy. We’re living in magical times! Nobody can hurt us. I mean, not really. So don’t waste your breath.

In just a matter of days, it’s all changed. A majority of Americans are ready to go to war. Instead of day-trading, people are lining up and donating blood. The reserves have been called up. We have this mission, this zeal, this purpose and resolve. All the World War II nostalgia of the past few years has come to fruition. We want to be like them.

I happened to read an instant message chat between my parents this morning, because my mom had forgot to close the chat window after she’d finished using the computer. My dad was still stuck in San Francisco. My mom said she was hearing all this talk of war, and she wrote to him, “I’m afraid for our sons.” My dad responded that this had crossed his mind as well.

So this evening I said to my mom: “You know, if for some god-awful reason there turns out to be a draft, at least I know I won’t be going.” She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not allowed in the military,” I explained.

She hadn’t realized that uncloseted gays aren’t allowed in the military. She thought “don’t ask, don’t tell” had changed all that. I explained the policy to her.

It’s funny, though. I’m not allowed to donate blood, either.

Not that I’d feel good about joining the military, but I want to do something. I’m so frustrated because I feel like I’m not doing anything. Charlie is donating clothes and making sandwiches. What am I doing? What good am I doing? I’m not even walking around Manhattan connecting with people.

I want to go back to the city. I feel so alone out here in the suburbs now. I want to see the posters and flyers. I want to be in a crowd. I want to commiserate with people. I miss my blogging friends. I miss Choire and Sparky and everyone else. I want to see you guys. I wish I’d known earlier about this NYC blogger gathering, because I would have gone. I hope there’s another one. I need to connect to people.

This is big.

This is the biggest thing to happen in our lifetimes.

It has decimated me.

I can’t sleep at night. All my childhood fears are coming back. When I was a kid living in my parents’ house, I was scared to go up to the third floor or down to the first floor of the house by myself at night. I’ve been staying at my parents’ house the last couple of nights, and I feel those same fears again. I was hungry in the middle of the night last night, but I was scared to go downstairs to the kitchen. And I dread going back to my apartment in Jersey City because I don’t want to sleep there alone.

Whenever I see that first hijacker photo, the one of Mohammed Atta — I can’t describe my reaction. I feel sheer terror. It’s the scariest face I’ve ever seen in my life. I imagine him steering the plane into the World Trade Center, and I imagine someone standing on that floor of the building as the plane comes crashing through the window, and I imagine them making eye contact.

I keep imagining what it was all like. I keep putting myself in the place of one of the airplane passengers or in the place of my friend Doug, an ordinary guy sitting at his desk as a hijacked airplane comes crashing through the building a few floors below.

This morning I was woken up at 7:30 by a truck that had pulled up in front of our house with the engine running. There was a truck in front of the house next door as well. I was half asleep and I assumed they were filled with debris from the World Trade Center. I’m going nuts.

My stomach has been upset for the last three days. Nothing in my stomach seems to keep any solidity.

I want to say, “This feels like when…” but there’s nothing to compare it to. The way I’ve been feeling is something I have not felt before at all, ever.

Two of the hijackers lived in New Jersey. One was in Fort Lee and the other was in Wayne. Wayne is right near here.

Who knows where else these people are?

I have been added to a mass-email list for updates on my friend Doug. Not that there’s anything to be updated on. But apparently there will be an article about him tomorrow in the Richmond (Va.) Times-Dispatch. There might even be a picture. The mass e-mail contained a contact e-mail address for Doug’s family, so I sent them an e-mail earlier.

I also heard from a friend, a lawyer who lives with his boyfriend on John Street, several blocks from “ground zero”:

We’re safe and uninjured but we’re homeless. I came into work today and got slapped with an assignment — amazing.

It’s so weird. That area is now called Ground Zero. A week ago it was known as the World Trade Center. A week ago, if you had referred to that area as Ground Zero, people would have looked at you funny. There was no such thing as Ground Zero.

Three hundred and seventy-seven years ago it was one of the first parts of Manhattan to be occupied by the Dutch. There’s so much history down there.

My dad and some business colleagues managed to charter a private Lear jet, and they’re flying back home on that. At least if it’s a private jet there won’t be hijackers on it.

I never, ever want to fly in an airplane again.

You know what? I just realized it’s Friday night. And that means nothing to me right now.

We’re on fire.

Nouns and Verbs

To “george,” who left a comment to this entry tonight at 8:28 pm: I really don’t know how to respond to you. I can only assume that, like all of us, this tragedy has hurt you and made you angry, and that this is just your way of processing that anger. As for me, my way of processing these events is to write my way through them, to describe them as I’ve experienced them. If you don’t get that, then you totally misunderstand the purpose of a blog or online diary. There are plenty of newspapers you can read if you want. I actually agree with some of what you said about Bill Clinton, but that’s about it. Anyway, this is all the energy I can expend on you. Be well, george.

I think I might go back to Jersey City/Manhattan tomorrow. I miss my New York friends. It’s frustrating not to be able to see things firsthand. I’m still on vacation for another week and a half, and therefore I have nothing that can take my mind off what’s happened. Even if I were working now I don’t think I’d be able to take my mind off everything. On the other hand, the idea of being in Manhattan kind of scares me.

This entry by Mike is very poignant: “It just hit me: in 2000 the foundations of American democracy were deeply shaken, and in 2001 the security of America as a republic has been more seriously questioned than ever before. These are the two worst years in American history to date.” Mike, the only upside I can think of is that at least we have knowledge now. At least we know. There’s no more fantasy. Actually — in this case, I think I might have preferred the fantasy.

An e-mail from a Manhattan friend today:

we live across the street. our apt is probably totalled. i was there. we left the building 10 seconds before the first tower fell. dust, smoke everywhere. couldn’t breathe. boats rescued us and took us to NJ. never thought i’d be so happy to be in jersey.

in westchester now. all is well.

There are an endless number of stories out there. Most of them will never be heard.

I heard on the news that there were 90 false bomb threats in New York City today. The word “evacuation” seems to be routine.

I think I’m going off the deep end. Last night was another night of insomnia. I’m at my parents’ house and I didn’t feel safe last night. I was sleeping in my childhood bedroom — which my parents have turned into a guest room — and I thought, wow, I remember when I used to sleep in this room as a kid and the world seemed so innocent.

It was three in the morning and then four in the morning and I tossed and turned on the pullout bed. I kept hearing noises outside and I was afraid there were burglars outside our house. When I was a little kid I had this book of Jewish folktales, and one of the stories involved robbers. I remember walking into the bathroom while my dad was shaving and asking him if there were such things as robbers. I just couldn’t believe there could be such bad things in the world. He told me there were indeed such things as robbers. That frightened me.

So anyway, I was freaked out last night, despite the fact that the alarm system was on. I turned on WQXR, New York’s classical music station, and tried to soothe myself, but they were playing a disturbing piece. Eventually they played a recording of Mahler’s Fifth, conducted by Leonard Bernstein, an idol of mine. If Lenny were still alive, I wonder what he’d have to say about this attack on the city he loved so much. He was always such an idealist.

I slept for a couple of hours and then woke up around eight. My mom was downstairs and the TV was on. I brought in the New York Times. Part of this morning’s front page headline: “THOUSANDS ARE PRESUMED DEAD.”

Thousands are presumed dead.

That doesn’t happen here. That happens in earthquakes in Turkey. Not here. Three hundred people is awful but I can fathom it. Thousands of people are dead in Manhattan. I can’t fathom that. I burst into tears again.

I’ve been falling into tears several times a day. The last time I felt this much grief was when my uncle died of bone marrow cancer four and a half years ago at age 60. But this grief is different. It’s too diffuse. It’s too much. There’s too much information.

This morning’s most disturbing newspaper photograph: page A7. A huge color photo of the upper part of one of the towers with a huge smoking gap where the plane hit. At the bottom of the photo you can make out a tiny figure — a man is standing there with no wall in front of him, he’s peering out into the world, his arm is shielding his face. He seems to be wearing khaki pants and a black short-sleeve shirt. The freaky thing is that from far away he almost looks like my dad, because he appears to have the same body type.

I can’t deal with this.

Meanwhile, my dad is still stuck in San Francisco.

I just heard what I thought was an airplane. I felt a slight panic because I know that the three major airports in this area are still closed. But then I realized it was thunder. It’s going to rain soon. I wonder what the rain’s going to do to everything. It’s been at least three whole days without rain. This is going to be the first rainfall of the new world.

No wait, I really do hear an airplane. I’m not used to hearing airplanes anymore. The sound is scary. I’m afraid of what kind of plane it is.

My god. What the hell has happened to us if we’re afraid of hearing airplanes?

This afternoon my mom told me I needed to get dressed and go for a walk or something. I needed to get out of the house. She was right. So I showered and changed and went for a walk around my town. The main shopping street is lined with American flags. There are signs on all the storefronts publicizing blood donations and trauma therapy groups. I walked around the park three times and it felt good to be out in the fresh air.

American flags everywhere. A reader named Tim points out to me that even in Alabama there are flags and three-hour waits for blood donations. I haven’t realized until now that this really has affected the whole country, not just us.

I had two moments of sweet normalcy today. In the afternoon, my mom and I went grocery shopping. Except they were selling the special edition of Time, so we each bought one. Filled with disturbing pictures. So much for normalcy.

But in the evening, my mom and I took the puppy to obedience school. We were in a room with ten of the cutest, most adorable puppies I’d ever seen. They were so cute and cuddly and adorable that I wanted to cry. I thought to myself, This must be what Israel is like. You cope with the constant threat of terror by living normal lives. You take your puppies to obedience school because you have to. For yourself.

I hear another airplane. I wish it would stop.

At night I called my friend Tim in D.C. Tim’s part of the same circle of college friends as me and CanadaGirl and Doug. We’re all supposed to go down to D.C. in November for Tim’s wedding. He’s sort of the anchor of our group, and I needed to hear his voice. We talked about Doug, and then Tim told me about being sent home from his company’s office after the Pentagon was hit, and after a while we just had to talk about normal things. So we talked about my new job and we talked about his wedding preparations. He also gave me the phone number of Doug’s girlfriend. Apparently she’s started to go through Doug’s Rolodex and call people.

So far, Doug’s name is not on this list of accounted-for Cantor Fitzgerald employees.

Via Sparky: first, these beautiful and sad photos from someone’s bedroom window. Second, from Sparky himself — photos that make me want to bawl.

I don’t have a digital camera, so the only tools I have to cope with are my words. But language isn’t functioning well right now. We’ve run out of adjectives; all we have left are the nouns and verbs. That’s the only way to cope at this point. Nouns and verbs.

I can’t tell if what I hear is thunder or an airplane. But it’s just started to rain.