Like an Errant Weed.


On the real and only 9/11, 15 years ago, I was at home, in my house in Van Nuys, watching, as I did then, “The Today Show”. My partner had gone to work in Beverly Hills, and I was on the couch as Katie Couric and Matt Lauer described how a plane had just hit the World Trade Center.

I went out after that, unaware of the unfolding calamity, to the old LA Fitness on Oxnard and Sepulveda, up on the second floor of a mirrored glass office building set back from the street with a landscaped entrance, a metal sculpture and a semi-circle of palm trees.

The gym had a row of treadmills, and above them, televisions tuned to the disaster. And I was back near the barbells, and saw our trainers, their hands over their disbelieving mouths, gather in front of the TVs and watch more planes crash into the Pentagon and Pennsylvania.

I had no mobile phone back then, so I went home and called my partner who told me he was coming back to Van Nuys. Nobody at work stayed at work unless it was necessary. Because everything, everywhere seemed as if it might be a target.

“They might target Rodeo Drive! Or even Sav-on Drugs!”


I called my parents who were still alive and living in Woodcliff Lake, NJ . They had gone up to Blueberry Hill, an elevated road in their borough with a distant view of New York City 17 miles away. And they could see smoke rising from the island of Manhattan. Of course they were safe. They always were safe back then.

That September, I went to work, (because there was still work in 2001), for a television production company in offices on Radford Street in Studio City in a little bungalow, since demolished, next to other little bungalows, with operable windows, wooden stairs and unit air-conditioners, now occupied by new apartment buildings.

For days after September 11th, I would step out into the alley for a break and look up into silent skies whose aerial routes usually carried deafening jets into Burbank Airport. Becalmed by government order, the aviators absence left us with an eerie, calm, quiet; deathly but somehow memorializing, like a moment of silence that lasted for many weeks.

Shocked, Studio City still carried on in its insipid, distracting duties:  washing and grooming dogs, painting and cutting human toenails, selling postage stamps, rehearsing commercials, changing tires; producing television, sushi, donuts and Koo Koo Roo chicken. Work, school and time slogged slowly and people walked with their heads down along Ventura Blvd.  Without smartphone or selfie, life was allowed to unfold meaninglessly without electronic self-affirmation.  Not everything was a picture. You just looked out with your eyes and moved on.

On Valley Heart Drive, where the concrete river snaked by, the sun baked the eucalyptus trees along the banks and heated up winds filled with mourning cries from back east.

That day of death, fifteen years ago, ushered in an infant century damaged and disfigured by a father of war and a mother of religious conflict. What transpired later, in Iraq, and around the world, has been an eclipse of enlightenment, a pulling down of darkness on intellect, and its supplantation by superstition and conspiratorial falsehood.

The feel-good lie has since won the war.

And whenever truth appears in public life, it is dug out of the grass sod of public opinion like an errant weed and replanted with artificial grass.

 

 

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