My opera about September 11, http://www.callingtheopera.com begins BLUE SKY BLUE SKY sung over and over as a chant, a paean to the exact emotion of a day. And now it is nearly 11 o’clock in the morning and I hadn’t realized what day it was. Truth, I have a wonderfully over-grown sense of denial, I forget immediately. And so when I went to write in my gardening journal the date popped up in my head, like a big blue sky.
And all morning everyone has been saying, Oh what a day, what a glorious day. But I know it is just like the morning nine years ago when we took kids to the first day of school on a Tuesday morning. So clear, so crisp so perfect, but now so changed.
And near to a decade later it is morphed, riddled for the worst I fear. My life is slower, my work drying up, my husband’s work vanishing and yet joyfully my children prosper. I would wish for nothing else if I had the magic lamp in my lap, but I now feel that it took me so long to realize how much that day impacted my fiber.
Wrong maybe. Perhaps I am the lack-luster adult who at 60 blames poor parenting for a lack of vibrant success? In this case I seem to have ascended over alcoholic and bi-polar parents, a former abusive spouse only to fall sway to the bog of September 11.
Back in 2001, I had gone to London stayed in a posh hotel and penned a cover piece on a starlette for a glossy magazine. The party for the big issue was scheduled for September 13. Well the rest is history. Nary a freelance writer out there is thriving. No expense accounts for sure and yet I sit here in a calm kitchen, coffee once again cold from neglect and the sun spreading a thick warm cover over every living thing. And I sit immobile.
Learning poetry seems a distant folly and all the beliefs in jobs imagined or pursued cast a spell of shame. As if when I dream of employment and a company of colleagues I fantasize a castle and coterie of royals, rather than a predictable income stream. All that was bankable, safety at home, a job that brought home the bacon and the pan in which to fry it seem like far fling wishes.
Time is irrevocably changed and now preachers threaten to burn holy books and the world responds with anger. If I dig a hole deep enough, the sunshine will no longer reach me and that seems a shame indeed.