inkgrrl's inkblog

I watched the World Trade Center memorial service this morning before coming to work, and through it all I kept flashing back to the GhostBuildings section of Lilek’s site. He put together a great collection of shots of buildings around NYC that still show the scars of their former neighbors – bricked-up fireplaces hanging in thin air, soot seemingly streaking out of nowhere and disappearing into nowhere a couple of stories up the side of an apartment complex, the shadow of a stairwell traced in zig-zags along the outside of an old hotel. I wonder what kind of ghosts will be left visible at Ground Zero after we rebuild. I remember walking across the World Trade Center Plaza years ago and stopping to stare at the bronze statues of office workers, waiting for them to move. After the Towers fell, the ash-covered statues that remained evoked the bodies at Pompeii – no longer frozen in a moment of life, but permanently stilled, as if life itself had been sucked from the bronze by the vacuum that flashed over the site when the Towers imploded. Same shape, different disaster.

Since I was lost in a haze of post-birthday party stupidity and had nothing profound or memorable to say about Memorial Day this year, I’ve decided to piggyback onto Protein Wisdom‘s beautiful offering and repost it here in belated tribute:

If you are able,

save for them a place

inside of you

and save one backward glance

when you are leaving

for the places they can

no longer go.

Be not ashamed to say

you love them,

though you may

or may not have always.

Take what they have left

and what they have taught you

with their dying

and keep it with your own.

And in that time

when men decide and feel safe

to call the war insane,

take one moment to embrace

those gentle heroes

you left behind.

– Major Michael Davis O’Donnell

1 January 1970

Dak To, Vietnam

I’m happy to say that I had a great birthday weekend! Not only was our Housewarming/Geminifest party a success with much food (burgers and babaganoush) and drink (Red Wing and tequila in various forms) and fun (silliness and South Park) had by all, but Sunday was perfect and peaceful. First we quested for my birthday present – Ali bought me a guitar with all the trimmings, then we ran all over town using the gift certificates that various folks got us as housewarming presents, then we had a great dinner at a little Italian place on Ventura Boulevard and rented a few movies to watch at home. I had originally had my heart set on seeing Attack of the Clones this weekend (dragging the hubby as part of my birthday indulgence) but so many people have been bad-mouthing it, in addition to spilling all the beans about what happens, that I kind of have a sour taste in my mouth now about paying to watch it on the big screen. Plus my feet hurt and the best theater around to see it at would have involved much walking (laziness is the curse of the lazy). Ah well. Monday was somewhat more somber, given the tone of the day – folks seem to be taking greater note of the intention of Memorial Day this year.

On another note, the Washington Post has this article about a company called Caedmon Records that records famous authors reading from their own work. Barbara Cohen Holdridge, a co-founder interviewed for the article, mentioned (among other things) a time that “she traveled to Washington to record poet Ezra Pound at St. Elizabeths Hospital, and he hurled a salami at her. Another time, ‘he stood in the garden reading Provencal poetry about birds. As he spoke all the birds began to sing. It was the most incredible thing.’” I love that image – Pound hurling a sausage. I’m sure it’s a condolence to the cow or pig that their sausage gave its life for art.