Until yesterday... I assumed. I imagined, I didn't entirely think it out but I had hoped for without taking the necessary steps of planning for...the day that "assumption" would guide the way of a different wave.
We know the destination of an assumption path. Too much faith and trust is put into motion giving off a sense of safety for all things connected to emotion.
I had made the agreement with an ever changing style of American life that the position of each day delivered would "never" find even enough space in our race toward the horizon to forget the elements collected that would and did become September 11, 2001.
I "assumed" all generations that day after felt the same.
I "assumed" every age would strive to better understand while vowing to help protect.
I "assumed" the world wouldn't change and that through education the measurements of distance traveled inside a single twenty four period would outlive those who did.
As the sunlight slowly grows from the un-sketched eastern line nestling close to the Atlantic oceans far stretching sky... the guarantee is that there are no guarantees except heat and light. What plays out beneath its purpose isn't determined by the darkness of space but the decisions carried out by makers of war and peace.
I "assumed" all levels of numbers linked to age and description would find influence and inspiration to never forget. To be aware. To prepare. To know the signs so that nothing like September 11, 2001 would happen again.
Falling witness to a phone conversation from an angry parent with well sharpened vocal tools. It took everything to keep from getting involved. I could feel the jagged knives of my freshly brushed teeth cutting into each layer of upper and lower lips; I assumed it would hold back 11 years of fear and anger hidden inside. I assumed as well as convinced that we as a nation had grown together, forward our emotions moved in forgiveness but not forgetfulness.
A local school teacher whose choice last Friday was to share the story of September 11, 2001 and a parent believed the teacher had no right to expose her child to it.
The parent had kept the day away from the child believing the act of not talking about it was the safest way to travel.
I "assumed" my personal participation in the conversation would lead to tattered and torn fingers being pointed. So I pulled off the road into a convenience store. Made my way into the restroom and cried. Because for some reason my mind body and soul won't let go of September 11, 2001.
Maybe it was because NBC 36 had broadcast a story about how the Ground Zero museum wouldn't be opening on the 11th anniversary. Funding has faded. Although thousands of visitors from all over the world stop to see the falls where the walls once stood...the numbers are growing when it comes to not understanding why the names are carved out in front of the pools.
Maybe it was because I remember sitting in a nicely designed hairstylists boutique when without warning my eyes caught the shape of a People Magazine dedicated to the children who lost mothers and father's on September 11, 2001. I was visibly taken over by the hardest to locate tears that I walked up to the hairstylist's counter and paid for the magazine so I could keep it.
In the hours that followed I learned that just over 600 women, sisters, cousins, coworkers...women were stolen from what we call life and to this moment not a single monument symbolizes their sacrifice.
Mothers... those that were and those who could've been. I wrote a song and produced a video called "Kisses"...not for this generation but the World Wide Web gifts generations beyond our final footprint the pictures of what it must have been like.
The video
Maybe my convenience store tears were brought on by who I am behind closed doors. A daily writer. One that places thoughts into hardcover books. I know exactly what I was feeling when something unexpected began to unfold on September 11, 2001.
From my book Another 1,021 Thoughts are the physical real emotions the artist that lives within felt before and after the day that forever changed the way we breathe in America.
September 8, 2001
Was I hearing something?
I have many fears about dropping everything and running—I refuse to think about leaving my forest. That in itself is reason enough to protect what really counts in the game of life.
September 9, 2001
I keep listening but nothing’s happening
I sit wondering about the journeys ahead… how many people can I become before someone whispers, “Times up.” Writing takes me to the introduction—my hands greet the new strangers… my soul turns thought into reality… if you don’t believe, my back is what you see. What I’ve created is a blank space—emptied into a world who thinks it’s ok to be a label maker. I don’t write to write… if that were the case, I’d use blue ink, and a Bic pen.
September 10, 2001
I can’t erase what’s already been written
My body is weak… looking out my writing window, I see nothing but darkness. If you want people to be there, then be there for them or die beside them.
September 11, 2001
6:40 am
Visions much deeper than a knife travel through me, around me, into pools of dried blood and paint. From the chips, they fall… captured stories to which I share. There’s got to be a hidden message! It’s then, I’m given a thought, “Never expect a stone to talk… ask your heart, it’s almost just as hard.” I see footprints headed toward murky waters… do I choose to follow, or prepare for their mud covered return? The guts of a cow make up my face—burn me til dead; I don’t want to return again. Why am I singing Amazing Grace?
9:03 am I sit watching, two incredibly tall buildings are spewing smoke! A 737 airplane has hit one of the towers. Is this a terrorist act? The news anchors are in question—they’re feeding our minds, our fears, our worst nightmares.
September 12, 2001
Mourning
Not even twenty four hours have passed—its 7:45 the next morning. Nothing’s changed here in Carolina… except maybe the way we look at reality. No death toll numbers, two hundred firefighters are missing. The airplanes are accounted for. We’re learning those on board were forced to call home to say goodbye. How do you say it? Do you know the arms of God will comfort you before impact? A lot has changed inside me. The way I look at reality. No truck passes me, no car starts, and not even a breeze in the air whispers without me wondering. Will this be my final step? Welcome to our new reality.
September 13, 2001
Why
Why are the blinds covering the windows pulled closed this morning? I can’t see the forest! I can’t tell if the sun has risen. I can’t tell if someone is looking in. My stomach has turned; a fear of war might be sitting on the edge of this newly built horizon. I wait for what today will bring. Some say ten thousand are dead. Radio stations have opened their airwaves to listeners who need to vent. I still find it incredibly odd—I remember looking at the clock on September 11th… it said 8:50. Good! I have ten more minutes to paint! Only to find myself singing Amazing Grace a second time that morning.
Do we go to war? Who do we fight? Is there religion involved? Who is innocent? Are we a united people? Why the trade towers? What does it symbolize? Who are we today? Who were we when Pearl Harbor was attacked? Please don’t drop the big bombs… leave the innocent alone. We can’t walk away from this—but who do we retaliate against? They’ve become our friends. They’ve built homes next to us. We’ve learned to trust our enemy. Does this make us weak? Our leaders sit in silent meetings. The media only speculates. Is the million man war about to take place—blood as deep as sixteen hands high. What are we doing to preserve inner peace?
September 14, 2001.
Hello God…um are you busy?
I think what bothers people most is the next step. How does the United States show its strength? We have to do it in a way that doesn’t bring us to our knees.
Interviewer: You’ve shown no anger about this attack…
M’e: Sure I have! I’ve kept it to myself. Creatively I’m displaying anger a different way than most.
Interviewer: When are you going to get pissed off?
M’e: There are a lot of weak hearted souls at the workplace—it’s not the time to fly off, or to start announcing my anger at such a horrible moment in world history.
Interviewer: Is the second coming of Christ near?
M’e: To hope that this is the second coming is natural. To be here when it happens makes me want to be prepared.
September 15, 2001
Aldo Nova’s fantasy doesn’t live here
Visions keep playing over in my mind… the airplanes crashing into the World Trade Towers. I guess the further we get away from the event, the more it sinks in.
At times I miss sharing the poetic touch. At times I continue to run away to do nothing but hide—a world of my own, with no one to say that I’m pretty weird. At times admitting that I’m strange was wrong. At times being strange is my only protection. It’s a place of my own, to grow, to write and paint, to slip, to fall, and then to get up again. At times I wonder whose writing? At times I can’t stop writing. For what reason do I waste so much ink? What is missing? At times I just want to hear silence and this… is one of those times
September 16, 2001
If but…
Wiped onto this page are the tears we still cry. The threat of war looms over this nation. No man on earth will know what it takes to place ink over the tears I’ve cried—a tiny mask to help hide, and a robe to help preserve. Unlike the morning dew dancing on the leaves… the sun shall never dry what’s been left behind.
September 17, 2001
First step toward a martial arts way of life
Where do we go from here oh lord of mine? How are we to heal and become strong? When will this go away oh Lord of mine? Will it get worse as time becomes yesterday? Rubbing my fingertips over the words just shared, my heart pumps a new blood into my desire. Who do I protect? When and for how long?
September 18, 2001
New book to write in—the blame game begins
When you start a new journey, the eyes and soul must expect constant change. Intuition may lead you away from danger, but it’s ultimately up to your own sense of balance to keep you steady. The stock market took a major beating yesterday—the 14th worst in history. It’s not that I’m afraid, I only wish Americans would have thought more about the trees they killed to build the homes they can no longer afford.
September 19, 2001
I can’t fight this nation’s wars…I have my own
Look out into this world and view everything—nothing out there was impossible to create… therefore, you doing nothing, means you don’t fit. We are creators, painters, writers, and singers—we are to be anything but lazy. Fill not the palm with wants and needs, bring to the light what your mind creates. In time, you too shall bare a shadow… it may decide to never let you grow anywhere near the visions I call my own. Until then, stay silent, and remain completely away.
My writing pen, my paint brush, my place of escape—my path, walk, and mind are filled with journey—my thoughts, bridges, my forest within…my creations, my lyrics, paper and pens. My pictures, my poetry, my everything including ego and conceit—even my empty back without angel wings.
If I have wronged you in sharing my open journals. I won't apologize. Nor should you ever find reason to ask why so many continue to cry. Something happened on that day that reshaped what we assumed would be a perfect day.
arroe@arroe.net
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