As many of you can probably imagine, we have had one helluva time getting anything onto paper since the events of last Tuesday. Our already dark writing just seemed darkened to a point of being almost incomprehensible. When we could summon the will to write at all. A lot of folks here have posted some really wonderful stuff in reaction to all that's happened. We've finally put together a couple of pieces that we didn't absolutely hate. Usually, we'd post teasers of our work on Off-Topic, but this time, they seem more appropriate here. Hope you like 'em.

Dumb

If everyone were dumb like me,
We'd have a real nice time.
We'd clean ourselves with re-fried beans
and brush our teeth with lime.

Paper dolls would fight our wars
and give their lives for freedom.
They'd be armed with tampon strings
although they wouldn't need 'em.

We'd wash our hair with gasoline,
Stick moth balls up our noses,
Drink a beer with fireflies
and dance to 'Guns 'N' Roses'.

Teach a whore to pitch a tent!
Shove macaroni in a vent!
Beg a Rabbi to repent!
Screw a skunk to steal her scent!
Make a scarf of dryer lint!

Yes, It'd be a perfect world,
If it would come to be.
And I would be the god of gods
If you were dumb like me.

It Is

It is perhaps half an hour before he can shake away the numbness and get moving. Around him is chaos, but he doesn't notice. He just knows he has to get moving. From the curb where he's been sitting, he rises and begins walking. One foot in front of the other, he harbors no thought in his head but to find his way home. The buses aren't running. The subway isn't running. He can't afford a cab, whether they're running or not.

It is just past nine when she first hears the news. She is at the flower shop a few blocks from their home. She works Tuesdays and Thursdays, supplementing his income. She thinks of the deli where he works--where now, he used to work--and sinks to the floor. Her boss sees her, has just heard the news, and is coming to tell her. He helps her to her feet, tells her to go home.

It is perhaps eight miles to the apartment. As he walks, he occasionally breaks from his reverie and observes people trying, and not succeeding, to make contact with their cell phones. As he walks, he occasionally breaks from his reverie and observes lines of people at pay phones. He thinks of calling his wife, but decides that he can reach her more quickly by walking on.

It is the first cigarette she's had in seven years. She quit smoking before they even met. She has urged him to quit many times, but he never has. Right now, she is grateful that he hasn't. She retrieves a pack of Marlboros from his carton and opens it. She lights a cigarette, not to relieve her stress, but because its smell reminds her of him.

It is about four miles from Ground Zero that he realizes he has never once looked back. He considers this for a moment, letting visions of her recede just for that moment. On consideration, he realizes he doesn't want to see. He bends down to retie his shoes. His shock still does not allow him to see the dust that covers him.

It is getting hard to see the reports on their tiny television set. Her eyes are red and puffy, the air has filled with the residue of half a pack of chain-smoked cigarettes, and the television reception is poor. She wills herself to see, eyes grazing over every person who appears long enough to confirm that none of them are her beloved.

It is quiet as he reaches their neighborhood. He has no idea how much time has passed. Most people are inside their homes, watching television, attempting to call family, clinging to one another. He sees the flickering blue light of the tube bouncing off the dust motes through his apartment's one window.

It is good to be home. She flings herself upon him, raising a cloud of concrete dust. He cries for the first time today, finally allowing himself feeling. He sees, over her shoulder, the roach-infested rat-hole for which they've long overpaid, the tattered sofa, the crucifix so detailed you can see the bloody rivulets on Jesus’ hands, the flickering television, the clunky glass butt-filled ashtray sitting atop a makeshift table of plywood and cinderblocks. He sees and thinks this place a womb, a safe haven, a home.

It is good to be home.

http://www14.brinkster.com/dclapper/criminals

• RE: Criminals From the Neck Up,dangerkitty, 04:54 PM, 09-21-01
• "It Is..." a Mantra...,IceCat, 06:47 PM, 09-21-01
• It is...,AyaK, 08:00 PM, 09-21-01
• RE: Criminals From the Neck Up,true, 08:16 PM, 09-21-01
• Trivial,Criminals, 05:42 PM, 09-24-01
  • RE: Trivial,IceCat, 06:25 PM, 09-24-01
• RE: Criminals From the Neck Up,Drive My Car, 07:54 PM, 09-24-01
• RE: Criminals From the Neck Up,LadyT, 09:06 PM, 09-24-01

Thanks for sharing this, and giving a hint as to what you are going through as creative souls at this time. I will look forward to whatever you choose to post. "It Is" I find very moving and appropriate. I have wanted to write something myself from the perspective of someone who was there, but found that I was daunted by the pain of the images and endings that were coming up, and the feeling of complete inadequacy to properly express it. So I'm glad to have you guys around.

If there is anything that you have written that you don't want to post but would be willing to share privately, I'd love to have it emailed to me.

Thanks.

dangerkitty

An amazing piece...

It reads like a mantra or someone saying the rosary...

"It is" - a simple declarative phrase...

"It is" - an acknowledgement of the existance of something...

"It is" - an final statement of acceptance...

All of these uses of 'it is' appear and mix with each other in this work... the meanings and images are multi-layered and rich.

...a blessing to be able to read pieces like this one.

Thanks for posting these, I really enjoyed them.

>If everyone were dumb like me,
>
>We'd have a real nice time.
>
>We'd clean ourselves with re-fried beans
>
>and brush our teeth with lime.
>

And I doubt it was your intent, but this inspired me to go out for a margarita. Thanks!

true

Thanks for the kind words, DK, IC, AK, and true. Very much appreciated. Here's another piece.

Trivial

Everything else seems trivial. Nothing's funny. Nothing's sad. Nothing's shocking. Everything means nothing now. Yesterday it wasn't like this, but then the world shattered. Now he can't see straight.

He sat with her and together they watched the buildings collapse. He had a faint idea of what was going on when he saw the first plane hit. The idea became a resounding collapse of his hopes when he saw the second one. They held hands, she wanting to ask the question, he hoping she wouldn't. And as days passed and things became more evident, the question bounced within her, but she held it inside knowing he didn't want to answer. She never had to ask, though and he never had to answer.

One weekend a month and two weeks a year, he thought. Seemed like such a good idea at the time. It payed for college, gave him the discipline he so desperately needed....but at what cost?

His once gentle hand balls up to grasp the remaining grains of sand from the hour glass. He watches the final speck slip through his fingers. And now, his fist is clenched in hate. He doesn't like to be this way, but he's just like everyone else. He wonders if his time is up.

They hold hands again as they listen and listen again to the message that has sat on the answering machine since last Thursday. She can't recall ever seeing him this way. So affectionate, it is frightening. He knew the message by heart but yet, he plays it again and again.

"We need you to check in with the base A.S.A.P."

He doesn't try to fight his internal battles, he lets them rip away. Him versus his love of his family versus his love of his country versus his bloodlust versus his duty. He doesn't think the warfare can change the way he feels... or doesn't feel... or refuses to feel, but his own feelings and wants have little to do with what will happen.

He picks up the phone and dials.

Yesterday was different, but not today. Today, everything else seems trivial.

http://www14.brinkster.com/dclapper/criminals

As a former military member, I have received those calls, had those conversations...

The best praise I can offer is that you were very, very, accurate...

I can't believe I didn't see these before.
They gave me chills.
So wonderful

These stories hit very close to home for me. They are amazing, amazing isn't even the word for it. Thanks guys, for making me cry again.

GOD BLESS AMERICA