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09/13/01
Everywhere you turn, there are memorials. I started the day with noticing the first of many "Missing Person" posters littering the city. It was on a lamp post in front of my apartment building. There was a color picture of a man in his fifties, his name, and physical characteristics. He was last seen on the 100th floor of the first tower to fall. There were three phone numbers with a New Jersey prefix listed at the bottom. It was a heartbreaking way to start the day, especially when you consider there are hundreds, maybe thousands more of them - all for different people - posted throughout New York. After work I went to Union Square. I was failing miserably at every task set before me all day, so I decided to just go and have a good cry already (instead of the stops and starts prompted by whatever suffering soul popped up on my television set at any given moment). There are a million pictures of this particular impromptu memorial already, and myriad television footage, but nothing can do it justice except to be there in person. No one is speaking there, and people are crying silently. The messages - both angry and optimistic - scrawled on the ground fan out around a tall sculpture, and the shuffling, solemn people surround the display. People are constantly lighting candles and laying flowers around it, and elsewhere in the square. It is the perfect place to mourn. After a half hour I walked away; I couldn't take it anymore. I stopped at a volunteer area to take down a list of supplies needed for donation, none of which I have at home. I'll go tomorrow morning to purchase the goods - bandages and waterproof socks and flashlights. They don't want food anymore, or clothes either, although they do need shoes. It's nice to see New Yorkers giving generously. It isn't surprising, of course. I showed my ID to the police officer at 14th and Broadway and crossed to the sidewalk, as he directed. I rounded the corner to 13th street, and walked toward 3rd Avenue. I passed the fire station between 4th and 3rd, and noticed the flowers surrounding the station. On the left I noticed the signs decorating the walls of an NYU dorm, a tribute to the firemen of New York. I cried. There are 350 firemen missing, and seeing those big, heroic men crying on the newscast when they speak of their lost friends has struck me more than most of the stories. There is no escape from the outpouring of affection and sadness, except, perhaps, in my office. *** Cinde came over and brought a cannoli. We talked for a while about sustainable energy. Cinde is actively involved with a group that promotes the development of alternate energy sources, and can speak eloquently on the subject. "We need to find other ways to power this country," she said. "We're too dependent on these countries in the Middle East. If we took away their bargaining power, we'd have more control in those conflicts." "What makes me sick," I said. "Is the fact that if we, as a country, have contributed financially to someone like Bin Laden, whether we know it or not." "It would be a beautiful thing if they rebuilt the World Trade Center and powered it with sustainable energy. That would be a true show of strength," she said. *** Everyone I know is exhausted, except for the people who have elected not to feel anything at all. One of the women staying with Stuart's wife felt faint on St. Mark's this evening, and had to sit down on the sidewalk. My roommate went to make sure she got home safe. I asked if Stuart's wife and her friends - all keeping vigil - were eating, and Sunil said yes, but that he thought they were lying to him. I am slightly jealous of the people who have moved on already, and am slightly annoyed with them, too. I can't connect with them. I want to move on, but I'm not ready yet.
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