Yesterday there was nothing to write. Today there is little to write either. Yesterday Frank Conroy suggested that the chicken has come home to roost, in terms of the U.S. exporting sensationalist, hyperviolent film entertainment to the rest of the world for decades. Everyone has been comparing the crash footage to the movies, and I've seen it so many times that it no longer does whatever it did to me the first time: it's objects attacking objects. But when they began to tell the first few human stories—the son calling his father from the hijacked plane, the couple holding hands as they jumped from the tower—God, then—
And if a conservative is a liberal who has been mugged, then what will become of us? And what will we do to others?
And I worry about Arab-Americans here.
And yesterday the weather was beautiful.
And bin Laden has such a kind face. He looks like the gentlest sort of holy man.
Yeats is a comfort in these times. And I'm back to Slaughterhouse-Five.
...because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like "Poo-tee-weet?"
