I woke up this morning at five to a familiar violin concerto, its tempo being a little slower than the rendition I favor by Isaac Stern. It finished with a garbled announcement of names and the hour.
As a Chopin piece began I sat up and make-shift meditated. With a bleary eyed gawk at the full moon I was soon able to dispose of the dream what had been going nowhere, playing like a broken record for the few minutes before the alarm had sounded. Concentrating on the creak of my shoulders, I outstretched my arms and quickly achieved a quasi-state of nothingness. The groggy state of consciousness abetted this quietly impetuous purge of thought.
I got out of bed at a quarter past to make my usual tasse of espresso, and then got in the shower to face another 9.11.
At noon I left the office and took a walk to the mid-Manhattan research library where an exhibit of commemorative 9.11 photos was on display (The September 11 Photo Project).
The exhibit merely drummed up the repressed woes of the tragedy, and I was unable to withstand the watershed.
The photo which opened the flood gates widest was a monochrome of a Styrofoam cup surrounded by votive candles. Someone had scratched upon it "I'll miss you Mom."
Within twenty minutes the one tissue I happened to have on me was useless and I was provoked to part, lest I resort to start using my sleeve.
hinc illae lacrimae.