Rivers enough
Nine One One
Ten years later, it’s all over the television again.
An assault of the senses trying to make sense
from a magnitude of nonsense as mad as talking
heads can make it. I refuse to participate, telling
myself I did it then and see no need to do so now.
If I capitulate, if I enjoin in the throng of sorrow
revisited, of madness remade, from somewhere
a small still voice whispers to me: The terrorists
win. A decade ago I stood in a stadium wearing
dark blue. Not the white of purity for I had lost
that decades before. Not the red of sacrificed
blood, for that endless ocean has rivers enough
to feed it. Instead I opted for valorous blue,
a shield against fear, a window to the possibility
for courage, and took my place in the human flag.
I stood with my deep blue kinsmen and wondered if
we could be seen from space. As the photographer
took his place atop the ladder, fiddled with his lens
settings, instructed helpers to straighten stripes and
tighten the stargaps among us through his megaphone,
I kept solemn and still and resolved. I thought of how
every construct of mind or hands is but an illusion of
permanence. In a world where nature allows for the
unspeakable, are we surprised that we lend our voices
to the inglorious din so willingly? So today I choose
to remain here and now, let past flags take their place
in lost skies, remain apart from the barrage of coverage.
In my mind, I approach a roundabout. Everyone stops,
no one proceeds. We look to signs for guidance, for
permissions, and they become clear: YIELD. If we but
yield left, we may yet get it right. We may yet get it right.
Joseph Gallo
September 11, 2011
post-time 10:43 AM
4 Comments:
Rightly writ, Joseph. I had the same intention, not to succumb to the great reiteration. But I failed. It was everywhere, and I got sucked in. I hope those who've suffered most found consolation in the anniversary, but I still feel the falcon is farther from the falconer.
Now I'll say in plain English that I felt it was an unabashed televised exploitation to sell advertising, almost terroristic in its ubiquity, shameful in its network outbashing as each tried to outcaption, outsomber, and outslowpiano the other, and frankly, it found it all quite morbid.
Now I can be as morbid as anyone, but this went beyond even my personal constitution of civility and human navalgazing.
Yes, we must never forget. But when does remembrance become capitalistic celebration?
When fear becomes a family value. When national leaders writhe over each other like piglets to the trough, to see who can best import the terror from where we're fighting Them over there.
“War is Peace.” Freedom is Slavery.” “Ignorance is Strength.”
"We've always been at war with Eastasia."
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."
Bravo, right on, correctamundo, amigo mio!
I'll be in Room 101 having a tête-à-tête with the Head Heartbreaker from the Ministry of Love . . .
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