email405.xml

email405.xml

born-digital

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2002-08-19

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SF GATE MORNING FIX
September 12, 2001
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By Mark Morford
morningfix@sfgate.com


NOTE: Special edition of the Fix today. No skewed Media Stew stories, and no usual wry banter, factoids, story picks, or etc. Just a Notes & Errata column, a little different. The Fix will return to its former state at a later date. -- mm


MARK'S NOTES & ERRATA
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**Grab Hands, Hold On**

Of course the most instinctive reaction is to reach out to loved ones, just to hear those voices and get those precious reassurances that everyone is all right, even though they might live just across the street or across town or in a western state nowhere near downtown Manhattan.

And even though you know thousands of others aren't all right, that the suffering elsewhere is unfathomable and much closer to your world that you want to realize, still you're compelled to draw your personal circle close and reach out to family and friends, lovers and neighbors and even pets, sort of hunker down and get a little quiet and breathe, try to absorb, feel the ground beneath your feet.

Because otherwise you can too easily become overwhelmed, too easily get swept up in the epic tragedy of the World Trade Center attacks and succumb to the massive reeling pain of it all.

Where you become suddenly, terribly aware of our ability to build massive technological wonders, glorious architectural achievements and advanced aircraft and enormous, incredibly complex infrastructures to further the progression of our species, only to be reminded in the most horrible way possible how those very same advancements can be the tools and modes of our devastation, can be, in a very literal way, used against us.

And like many others across the country, I had a small group of New York friends reporting in all day Tuesday, emailing their status and telling me they we OK, more or less, that they had accounted for their families and friends, that their apartments and neighborhoods were covered in soot and debris and tragedy, that they were in shock but fine, mostly, considering.

And I also had messages from friends locally, everyone just checking in on everyone else, putting feelers out seeking gentle proof that those most important human connections were still intact, the frail and essential emotional links that have nothing to do with money or work or cars or portfolios or political affiliations or who has the coolest job or haircut or SUV. And they respond and you share a moment and you are reassured, the circle keeping you warm.

But then there comes that point after hours and hours of coverage, after countless images and replays of jetliners smashing into towers and people running in horror down dust-blasted streets, of buildings collapsing and rescue efforts thwarted, of bodies and fires and impenetrable horror, the human mind automatically hits a barrier of tolerance, a tragedy threshold whereby no more can be taken in for awhile, no further devastation can be digested, you just go a little numb and you have to look away, for a short while.

There is a small amount of guilt attached to this feeling. But it is unavoidable, and it is largely necessary and important and ultimately healthy. The mind knows its limits. You have no choice. The alternative is, well, something akin to breakdown. And no one needs that.

And hopefully you do what you can when you're geographically distant from -- but emotionally bound to -- such horror, maybe give blood or donate money or voice your opinion where it counts, reassure those who need it most. But after all that something else happens, some essential shift in the heart and the mind, you hit that threshold and turn away for a little while to take a deep breath and for a brief period life suddenly becomes weirdly lucid and simple and clear, and you find yourself seeking out something different.

For myself and many people I've talked to, what comes next is this need, this almost automatic instinct to seek out the small and the beautiful and the safe, to put on classical music or paint a picture, something clean and pure, to delve into those things which seem to be relatively free of death and destruction and human meddling, things that don't have any outward potential for pain and devastation and which remind you how the world is still capable of creating beauty and joy and solace.

Or maybe it's a personal craving, something intimate, like the need to snuggle up in bed with a loved one and turn off the TV and just forget for a few moments, just be, as you quietly notice how everything but the essential human connections is instantly drained of all relevance and weight, it just falls away, rent and work hassles and stress and your in-laws coming to visit, all light and easy, and you're glad for what you have and where you are and that you can grieve and feel and care.

Or maybe it's as simple as stepping outside into the daylight to look around and take it all in, really look at the trees and the houses and the people and reassure yourself it's all still there and still functional and the world is still spinning, more or less, though sadly hobbled, somehow that much more ethereal and strange, that much more fragile than before.

September 12, 2001

Grab Hands, Hold On