Last September I saw the Bangles perform. I grossed you all out with the notion of the “carrot sac”. I hosted a dinner for some American friends. Roald Dahl had a birthday. So did my brand new little brother. I raved about kiwifruit. I shared some Buffy spoilers. All these little mundane life moments, you know? There I was, just swimming along, oblivious and happy. And then something terrible happened. After a year, those words don’t even seem like mine anymore. I’m disconnected enough now to see my own reactions objectively. I see my own confusion and fear, along with a secret and shameful sense of excitement at the fact that my generation would finally have a “defining experience.” I watch as those feelings turn to anger and sadness. Then, gradually, equilibrium is regained. I’m almost disturbed at how quickly I came to accept the situation and move on. Does anyone else feel like that? I didn’t know anyone in the World Trade Center, and no one I know even lives in New York. It’s almost as if this anniversary of mourning makes me feel guilty for not being more effected. Am I all alone here?
The most prophetic quote from the month: “As Snookums put it this morning when we were going our separate ways at work: ‘If America goes to war, we’re going to Australia.’ I couldn’t have put it better myself. Get me the hell out of here.”
And that’s all I have to say about that.