priorities
September 19

Los Angeles

A week ago I was getting ready for work on a garden in West Hollywood. As happens most mornings, after checking my e-mail and breakfast, I was running a little late so I called the client.

"I don't know what to say..." I thought she was pissed at me for not calling earlier.

It took a while to sink in. Before getting off line and calling her I had seen a little picture of the then standing World Trade Towers aflame on MSN but figured it was a still for some stupid new movie so I ignored it.

The rest of the day I don't remember well, except that all I could gather myself up to do was go work in my own garden, neglected for weeks except for those single moments stolen each morning before going off to work. My neighbors could have thought me callous, why wasn't I doing something more appropriate?

That day passed so slowly, yet the only other things I remember was that one neighbor chatted me up about the cat that lives in the back, and thinking, my god, has she no clue, and that I could pick up my bike after five, and thinking, well, glad I bought it yesterday, business will take a nose dive after today.

After a day of listening to the news, I needed some kind of break, so I wandered by the park, partially just to escape from myself, and on the off chance that I might meet someone who also needed to escape from himself, but instead I found myself on a street I hadn't been on before, and looked at the nice houses that looked empty, though inside could have been people trying to escape everyone else.

Now my little problems and little thrills were even smaller. Sure, it would have been nice to attend the candlelight vigil with a boyfriend; who wanted to hear about the movies I saw at Telluride or meeting Faye Dunaway? That wasn't important anymore.

On Thursday I went to see a friend's band perform and it was a severe test of loyalty. They were going to cancel but decided in the spirit of forging ahead to go on anyway. Hearing the lyrics I realized this was not anything I wanted in my life anymore, but I believed the people on stage were feeling something as well and decided that sticking with my friends was more important than walking out.

What became important was the rugby team. We had chosen our name, LA Rebellion, Monday night just hours before the bombing and I began to believe that keeping the team going was snubbing the terrorists in some small way, and then I heard the news about Mark Bingham. He was on the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania and played for the San Francisco Fog. He called his mother from his cell phone and told her that he and some others had a plan. I don't know what happened on that flight but in my heart he is a hero.

But the flag waving concerns me. The emphasis on the economy insults me; in spite of what has happened we are urged to buy, buy, buy. The push to get back to normal, without questioning what it was about American Business as Usual that prompted the attack is an outrage. The leader of my country is frightening, but I can't begin to know the pressures on him, I can only hope for the best.

Now I function in waves. Sometimes I'm clear and purposeful, other times the enormity of pain is too much for me to imagine and I'm stymied until I think of something to do to break out of it, but then those are the stolen moments, or more accurately, the claimed moments, and that is how I will piece my life back together.

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