Counting Coup on the Towers
[originally published 11 September, 2022]
a friend just reminded me of a special moment we shared on the plaza between One and Two. i used to visit WTC now and then, sketch people in the plaza, sit and read with my back to Two or One; basically just savor being in the only place in Manhattan where you couldn't see the hateful towers.
many, many new yorkers hated them, resented them, cursed at them. They were visible down every avenue, bigger and uglier than anything rich people have ever built, soulless boxes full of the money and power that was mutating the city into the playground of the rich, driving out more and more of those who had grown up in manhattan or brooklyn or the bronx, who loved and knew the city, and resigned themselves to shitty service jobs or moving away.
I think a lot of people forget how much we hated the towers, hated seeing them everywhere you went, gargantua and pantagruel keeping oppressive watch over a horde of vermin. so the day we saw the airplanes pierce that gray hide, saw the flames and smoke burst out like water from a popped ballon, saw the wretched pair collapse into themselves and disappear into ash and smoke that quickly reached us as far north as 28th St...
there is a special horror in witnessing destruction and death that you yourself have coveted from time to time. did I do this? did the violence of my heart pierce the armor and turn thousands of people into ash that we all then inhaled, a stench that stayed and never diminished and never could be ignored or adjusted to? for weeks and months we inhaled the reek of human arrogation of divine justice, human usurpation of heaven's own fire, and we exhaled rage, and fear, and guilt, or shame.
a friend just reminded me of a special moment we shared on the plaza between One and Two. i used to visit WTC now and then, sketch people in the plaza, sit and read with my back to Two or One; basically just savor being in the only place in Manhattan where you couldn't see the hateful towers.
many, many new yorkers hated them, resented them, cursed at them. They were visible down every avenue, bigger and uglier than anything rich people have ever built, soulless boxes full of the money and power that was mutating the city into the playground of the rich, driving out more and more of those who had grown up in manhattan or brooklyn or the bronx, who loved and knew the city, and resigned themselves to shitty service jobs or moving away.
I think a lot of people forget how much we hated the towers, hated seeing them everywhere you went, gargantua and pantagruel keeping oppressive watch over a horde of vermin. so the day we saw the airplanes pierce that gray hide, saw the flames and smoke burst out like water from a popped ballon, saw the wretched pair collapse into themselves and disappear into ash and smoke that quickly reached us as far north as 28th St...
there is a special horror in witnessing destruction and death that you yourself have coveted from time to time. did I do this? did the violence of my heart pierce the armor and turn thousands of people into ash that we all then inhaled, a stench that stayed and never diminished and never could be ignored or adjusted to? for weeks and months we inhaled the reek of human arrogation of divine justice, human usurpation of heaven's own fire, and we exhaled rage, and fear, and guilt, or shame.
there was no relief in the sudden departure of the orgulous boxes; just as they had oppressed our eyes and hearts, their demise attacked our lungs, bones, blood, sanity.
so today i was reminded of those moments of wonder and sly pleasure on the plaza between One and Two, looking up into the sky and seeing both their glassy bulks transfigured into more heaven, more expansion, more hope.
so today i was reminded of those moments of wonder and sly pleasure on the plaza between One and Two, looking up into the sky and seeing both their glassy bulks transfigured into more heaven, more expansion, more hope.
Allah Hu; amin, selah.
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