Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Eleventh of Never.
It seems impossible that it's been four years already, especially since it feels you continue to live in that day, whenever you think on it. Which is less and less than before, when we lived inside the loop of continuous crashes and collapses, but more often than you probably should. After it happened, there was a lot of discussion over the artistic response to the attack, as in should there be one. You wanted to write about it, but you felt wrong somehow doing it. You did anyway, and it was healing in its own small way, but it was just for you. That debate seems to be over. Next year there will be many films; there have been many books since, and for myself I found my way to write about it, in the second book of the sci-fi trilogy I finished back in May. And obviously it's not about the attack literally, which I simply couldn't do. I don't know if anyone ever can, as vividly and horrifically as we actually lived it. It is about loss, and hope, and the idea that when there is tragedy, there is opportunity. A chance for something better.