Author: foxtongue

My evening plans dissolved under the frayed-temper weight of a mid-run rehearsal that went late, went later, then turned into an improbable, cramped-in-the-back-of-the-car expedition to Burnaby to The Arts Institute, until finally, tired, worn, at four in the morning, I was dropped off home.

Part of me knows why I let these things happen, but the rest of me is speculating on a possible homicidal spree. Something you can all hear about on the radio. Trading in famous for infamous with the merest arterial spray.

Today was the anniversary of the World Trade disaster, the strength of misplaced faith moving towers instead of mountains, but until I signed on-line, I heard not a word on it. Even then, coverage was sparse. In six years, it’s had time to fade, but also to become one of Those Questions, “What do you do?” “Where are you from?” “Where were you on September 11th?” The immediacy has merely shifted focus, become diluted through our culture like waxy ink through blood. A slow acting poison, changing our perspectives.

I was in bed, until I wasn’t anymore. Cory and Jon in the den, glued to the TV. We all have our stories, sitting in cars, unlucky at airports, the entire world spinning still, like a record slowing down, just in time for the second plane to crash in. Fire, collapse. Do you remember the jumpers? Echoes. Of anywhere, I wanted to be there.

Before, we had the Berlin Wall. A glorious thing, people dancing on the ruins, encapsulating history in joy. Now we sit around the dinner table, frown, and recite our whereabouts, how we felt, what we think should be done. A very different “Before”. Politics, everywhere. Always America. The circus in flames.

Duncan and Scott, a Scots-Canadian and an American, have posts I think you should read. I am too lonely, too tired, too emptied by my day to properly have my own words.

I am sorry, world, that we have failed you so. It would have been better to remember the wall.