Why not say what happens?

Commonweal, Nov 5, 2004 by Lawrence Joseph

I

Of icons. Of divination. Of Gods. Repetitions without end. I have it in my notes, a translation from the Latin, a commentary on The Book of Revelation--"the greater the concentration of power on earth, the more truth is stripped of its power, the holiest innocent, in eternity, is 'as though slain ...'"

It has nothing to do with the apocalyptic. The seven-headed beast from the sea, the two-horned beast from the earth, have always--I know, I've studied it--been with us. Me? I'm only an accessory to particular images.

II

According to the translation of the police transcript, the sheik--the arrested head of the cell mockingly said--in a plot involving a chemical attack, needs, simply, two or three young men with brains and training with nothing to gain or lose, not an army.

It doesn't take much these days to be a prophet. Do you know how much poison can be put in a ten-liter barrel? You pour it and spread it, then you leave. The web is, prosecutors believe, so intricate, the detainee, they think, may also be a member of cells in Barcelona and Frankfurt.

III

Yet another latest version of another ancient practice--mercenaries, as they were once known, are thriving, only this time they're called "private military contractors."

During the last few years their employees have been sent to Bosnia, Nigeria, Colombia, and, of course, most recently, Iraq. No one knows how extensive the industry is, but some military experts estimate a market of tens of billions of dollars.

IV

Autumn turned to winter and the site began to clear. The limits of my language are the limits of my world, said Wittgenstein.

The realization--the state of the physical world depends on shifts in the delusional thinking of very small groups. One of Garfinkle's patients tripped over a severed foot while evacuating the Stock Exchange. Several others saw the first plane pass right next to the almost floor-length windows of their conference room.

"When I'm not working, the last thing I want to do is talk about it," said one policeman, who, like many of the city's uniformed officers, is still working a schedule of twelve hours on, twelve hours off ... Shoes, books, wallets, jewelry, watches, some of them still keeping time ...

The congressman says he can't say for sure there isn't suitcase with a nuclear bomb floating around out there. Everything immense and out of context. The large item in the mud, one of the motors that powered the Towers' elevators. "It's intense"--says Lieutenant Bovine--"no photographs! This is a crime scene!" What happened was one floor fell on top of another, as many as ten floors compressed into a foot of space. What fell was mostly metal ... The cement vaporized ...

The "Night Watch" was what the laid-out scene looked like. The fences around the wreckage covered with T-shirts, teddy bears, and memorial banners signed by thousands of visitors; tourists snap pictures, and, subject to the way the wind is blowing, the air is tinged with an acrid smoke ... "Lost/Missing Family 1-866-856-4167 or 1-212-741-4626 ..." A Web Exclusive, the poet will speak about poetry and grief ...

The smells of burning wiring, dankness from the tunnels, the sharp and sweet cherry-like smell of death. At eight-ten on Friday two more bodies are found in a stairwell of the South Tower. Work, again, stops, and the ironworkers, who have been cutting steel beams, come out from the hole. The work goes on until well past midnight. More debris is removed, another body recovered. A group of ironworkers stands on a gnarled beam, one end of which juts over the pit like a gangplank. Three 35-millimeter movie cameras are placed on top of nearby buildings, each programmed to take a picture every five minutes, day and night. A bugler slips onto the site and plays "Taps."

V

That period of ten or eleven years--concerning it I can express myself briefly.

At some point, in collective time, electronic space turned into time. The miraculous multiplication of loaves was restricted to the rentiers.

A grappa in a black pyramid-shaped bottle was taken cognizance of, and, with no resistance, for the most part, no guarantees were made for the slow, the meek, or the poor of spirit, who, for reasons unexplained, allowed themselves to disappear into the long, red evenings, night's early gray-blues.

VI

Screaming--those who could sprinting--south toward Battery Park, the dark cloud funneling slowly--there are two things you should know about this cloud--one, it isn't only ash and soot, but metal, glass, concrete, and flesh, and, two, soon any one of these pieces of metal, glass, or concrete might go through you.

As she turns to run, a woman's bag comes off her shoulder, bright silver cassette-discs sent spinning along the ground, a man, older, to the right, is tripping, falls against the pavement, glasses flying off his face.

VII

Have I mentioned my grandmother, my father's mother, who died long ago but who visits me in dreams?

It's to her, mostly, I owe the feeling that, in cases of need, those transfigured in eternal love help us certainly with eternal, and, perhaps, also, with temporal gifts; that, in eternal love, all is gratis--all that comes from eternal love is gratis.