The Twin Towers Rebuilt

You may recall me mentioning my ever-so-brief career as a freelance journalist of sorts. A few years ago I was hired to write content for the now-defunct Grid World News blog, which reported on the virtual places and happenings in the online game Second Life. The following is an article I wrote for the sixth anniversary of 9/11. Please note that ‘Linden’ is the name of the fictional land in Second Life.

The Twin Towers Rebuilt
Rising above adversity and remembering the human tragedy of 9/11

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away from Linden, there were two giants – the tallest buildings in the land. They were the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, and they dwarfed everything around them. For many years they stood on that land as shining symbols of its wealth and power. Then one otherwise ordinary September morning, they were attacked and came crashing down in the most horrifyingly spectacular way. That day would forever after live in infamy. That day was 9/11.

After visiting Linden’s tribute to the Twin Towers called Twin Towers Rebuilt, it’s hard to know how to feel. Six years have passed, but for many of us the events of that tragic Tuesday are still fresh in our minds. The last live images we saw of the World Trade Center were of the towers collapsing like twin houses of cards while we sat glued to our TVs – our eyes wide and our hands covering our mouths. Therefore, to see them rebuilt with such meticulous attention to detail can leave one feeling unnerved, uneasy, and overwhelmed.

It’s even harder to know what to write. How can one even hope to capture in words the sheer enormity and the profundity of that day? The writer struggles to find the right words and none of them seem big enough. This is probably why there are no words at all in the 9/11 Memorial and hardly any in the rebuilt Twin Towers. Instead there are images – lots and lots of images, going along with the old idea that images speak much louder than words ever could. The memorial contains thousands of images of the faces of victims. On the observation decks of the rebuilt Twin Towers are dozens of images, most of which are of the towers in flames, but there are also some quite poignant and intimate images of people.

The Twin Towers Rebuilt doesn’t tell one how to feel or what to think. It does not judge, nor does it offer analysis or explanation. It has no political agenda, and it does not attempt to assign blame for what happened. It’s simply a reminder to all of us that people died that day, and that 9/11 was ultimately a human tragedy.

When is a hospital not a hospital?

When it’s a medical center. Even if it calls itself a hospital.

I left work early yesterday because I was feeling very poorly: dizzy, lightheaded, disoriented, and feeling in my head as if I was riding a roller coaster. I told my boss I had to leave and he told me to go to the nearest hospital. He even offered to put me in a taxi and pay for me to get there, but I said I could probably make it on my own. Anyway, I called Tobias (Swedish boyfriend) and he said he’d meet me at Capio Lundby Hospital, since it was the nearest one. At least I thought it was.

When we got there the staff seemed confused as to why we were there, since this was apparently not a hospital but a local clinic or medical center (vårdcentral in Swedish), despite the fact that the sign on the outside clearly reads, “Hospital.”

“So, uh… why did you come here?” the receptionist asked.

“I need to see a doctor right away and this is nearest hospital to where I live.” I said.

“Oh,” she said, “Well, that’s an easy mistake to make. It says hospital on the building but it’s not really a hospital. We don’t take emergency patients. For that you need to go to one of the emergency hospitals.”

She agreed that it was a stupid rule but that rules are rules.

At this point, I began to get really upset, since I was feeling genuinely awful and no one seemed willing to help me. They then took me into a room and let me sit down while a very kind and sympathetic nurse talked to me and calmed me down. She looked up the number of my neurologist and had Tobias call his office. He didn’t speak to the doctor but after giving an explanation of my symptoms to one of the nurses there, it was I suggested I go to the emergency room ASAP.

The problem was that the nearest emergency room was across town, and it would take us an hour to get there on public transport. So, the hospital/medical center arranged for a taxi to take us there at their expense. They did seem sincerely sorry that they couldn’t treat me and were being as helpful as they could. The taxi ride took about fifteen minutes.

Eventually I was admitted to triage and was seen to by a whole team of nurses and doctors. They did an EKG test, took lots of blood and urine, asked me a bunch of questions, and fixed me right up. It was nice that I didn’t have to wait very long either. It was the shortest emergency room visit I ever experienced. In and out in about two hours time.

So, to make a long story short, if you ever find yourself in Sweden and need to go to the emergency room, make sure that the hospital you go to really is a proper emergency hospital. Not all of them are. I found out the hard way.

My Father’s Eyes

Forecast calls for sun. It should be sunny, but it Rains disappointment.

Mine are just like his.
His pale blue eyes.
Once so clear. So bright.
Beautiful and electric.
Now faded and dull.
Cold blue discs floating
In a bloodshot sea.
An icy ocean chummed
For sharks beneath.
Blood vessels floating
And bobbing like dead fish
On the surface.
The last time I looked
In those eyes, in that sea,
My heart froze.
And then it burned.
For there was his soul
At the very bottom.
Rock bottom.
Unable to surface.
Drowning.
Save me, it whispers
Help me.
So in I’ll dive.
And down I’ll sink.
Past the bloody surface.
Into the cold darkness
To find his soul.
I’ll hold it tight and swim.
And the sea will become clearer.
And bluer, sparkling blue.
And we’ll emerge.
His soul and mine.
Together.
And the sea,
Will be beautiful again.
His eyes as pale blue,
As a summer sky.

Winner of the Poetry Palace Perfect Poet Award Week 50.

Raiders of The Lost Heart

Am I glib?
Very well then, I am glib.
I am hurt, and must protect myself.
I’ve built up a maze,
Of intricate ways,
Wrapped in a blanket of nonchalance.

Each delicate riddle,
That leads to the middle,
Connects to a trap door of some kind.
In no way capricious,
It’s easy to see each is,
Formed from scars on heart and mind.

Each test there to see,
If you’re really worthy,
To find your way through to my heart.
If you’ve no stamina,
Like old Indiana,
Then really, don’t even start.

If you spring a trap door,
You won’t see any more,
You’ll reach a point you just can’t pass,
Make the wrong choice,
Use the wrong inner voice,
You’ll just slide right out on your ass.

It’s been murmured around,
I don’t want my heart found,
Truth is though I just don’t want to fake it,
If that means I’m denied,
One who makes it inside,
That’s a chance, and I’ll just have to take it.

My Box of Ignorance

Despite all the pain I left behind,
Every now and then you cross my mind.
Yet, these thoughts aren’t the unwelcome kind.

I feel neither hatred, nor bitterness anew.
I’ve got far better things to do,
Than waste my time and energy on hating you.

I wonder if you’ve changed or are just the same?
Still burning in the fire of Jealousy’s flame.
And committing selfish acts in its spiteful name.

When first we met what laughs we had!
Yes, you were a bit controlling but not that bad,
And the happy times far outnumbered the sad.

Yet, over the years your jealousy became a curse.
And your controlling nature just got worse and worse.
Your selfish arrogance more difficult to disperse.

And despite the abuse increasing more and more,
And all the other women that I chose to ignore,
I tolerated it and stayed because that’s what I was for.

And because that was box that my life was in.
When I went inside, I was cut off from the pain.
Once I was safe inside, no need to come out again.

But you didn’t keep me prisoner in that box, I did.
From all the looks and all the words of pity, there I hid.
And then one day I cautiously opened up the lid.

I saw a world out there without you at its center.
At first it seemed more or less impossible to enter.
For I had all of your wants and requirements to tend to.

But then I started looking outside that box more often.
And eventually my resolve to stay in there began to soften.
Until one day I realized that my box was now my coffin.

Something is very wrong, I said, something is amiss.
I think my life was meant to be so much more than this.
So I stepped outside and left behind my box of ignorance.

BOXES

The comfortable box,
With its well worn thoughts,
I’m inside though I’ve often denied it,
I tumbled in there,
Not fully aware,
Of the patterns I found there inside it,
Boxes I have known,
I’ve found while I’ve grown,
Were a challenge though I still could break out,
This one I’ve just found,
Has long been around,
Left me struggling with what it’s about,
It’s put me to the test,
Larger than the rest,
Encompassing what I’d not considered,
Patterns long instilled,
Leaving life unfulfilled,
And many relationships withered,
Some friends who know me,
Could probably see,
(On the outside they can be objective)
On the other hand I,
As years have gone by,
Have been blinded and rather selective,
Now I’ve let in the light,
After struggle and fight,
From this box I will finally break free,
With thinking that’s new,
I’ll expand my view,
Of what love and relations can be.

Just listen.

Everybody thinks they know.
There must be something.
Try it this way.
Say it that way.
They’ll respond to this.
They’ll respond to that.
Just give it time.
Sooner or later they’ll come around.
Just don’t give up. You can’t ever give up.
Don’t give up?
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Give up?
What the hell does that even mean?
No matter what I do. Anywhere, anytime,
They are in my thoughts constantly.
I’ve reached out, so many times, and been slapped down,
again, and again.
I have a right to survive as well.
If you want to offer me help, and support,
An ear to listen, then fine.
But don’t pretend to know. Don’t speak of that
of which you have no experience,
no knowledge.
Give me a hug,
But not your fucking blind ignorant hope.
My hope is chiseled. Focused.
Doled out deliberately in small doses,
for where I think it might be most effective.
At times, even after all these years,
It slips away from me,
And I find myself, against my better judgement,
Hoping with reckless and wild abandon.
Tlll I reign it in,
Knowing that that way sadness lies.
I have hope, a goddamned motherlode of hope.
But I will not squander it foolishly.
It will be tempered.
It must be tempered.
Forged, and made strong in the furnace of my heart,
Able to withstand
The time, and the journey,
No matter what the cost.
I understand never, oh yes,
from too many angles,
So don’t give me your platitudes,
Give me your shoulder, and perhaps a smile,
In the darkest times hold me,
But don’t placate me.
I know of what I speak, from the depth and bredth of my being.
Respect that, learn to just listen. Nothing more.

Dear Brother

Do I have a soul? I do not know. We cannot know such things. I'd like to think that it's not me, but my soul, that rhymes and sings.

When I was seventeen, I told you,
My deepest darkest,
And most devastating secret.
What he did.

What he’d been doing, rather…

It had become my demon possessor.
Strangling me. Choking me.
Every day killing me.
Crushing me.

Under its enormous weight.

And I was suffocating.
So I told you.
But you didn’t believe me.
At least not at first.

Not that I blame you…

Selfish it was to share with you,
My crushing burden.
But we’d been through,
So much shit,

You and I, together…

And how could you go on,
Living day by day,
In the same house,
With the same man,

Who did that to your sister?

Much easier it must have been,
For you to tell yourself,
I made the whole thing up.
That I must be lying,

And pretend I never told you.

WOTD: hoarding

Well, that’s it. Another year over and done with. I mean another school year, natch. Today was my last day at work before summer vacation. Yippee! Now I have four days to prepare mentally and, indeed, environmentally for the arrival of my mother, grandmother and cousin. They’ll be arriving on the 6th next week and will say in Gothenburg until the 11th, when we’ll all journey to Stockholm. I’ll celebrate my 36th birthday in style in Sweden’s beautiful capital city.

But I digress from today’s very serious topic: hoarding. Actually, I’ve never personally known a hoarder. Until now I think. There are several types of hoarding, one of which is the result of hardship. For example, many Japanese have begun hoarding rice and other foodstuffs because of the disasters that occurred earlier this year. Animals hoard food for the winter. Then there is the type of compulsive hoarding with which this post is concerned. Wikipedia defines it as, “the excessive acquisition of possessions (and failure to use or discard them), even if the items are worthless, hazardous, or unsanitary. Compulsive hoarding impairs mobility and interferes with basic activities, including cooking, cleaning, hygiene, sanitation, and sleeping.”

There was a lot that needed to be done at work today to finish up the year. I did some administrative work, scrubbed the kitchen area, and threw away piles of old uneaten food from the fridge. Yeah, it was pretty gross but not nearly as disgusting as having to gather up the suspected hoarder’s multiple piles of accumulated stuff and moving them into her office. I don’t know if this person is at the compulsive stage yet, but could very well be on the way there.

Normally I wouldn’t have bothered, but we have cleaners coming next week who will mop and wax the floors and who had requested that all personal belongings be picked up off the floor. So, since my pack rat colleague is already on vacation, the task fell to me to remove her stuff from the faculty computer room. This room is supposed to be at the disposal of all members of the faculty. However, it had gotten to the point where every surface: every desk, table, shelf, and window sill was stacked with her papers and belongings. I found lists of contact information for students who graduated years ago, and boxes full of old homework assignments, which for some strange reason she insists on keeping. I doubt if she even remembers she has this stuff.

She’s done the same thing in the exam marking room, and don’t even get me started on her office. Yeah, she has an office, but she never uses it. Actually she has part of a shared office that also happens to be my office. She has two desks, a couple of book trolleys, at least four of the large IKEA Billy bookshelves, and several paper shopping bags on the floor, all stacked and stuffed and crammed with books and papers. It’s even worse now because I just brought everything she’d spread out in the computer room and shoved as much as I could on her bookshelves and dumped the rest of it on her desk.

Man, she’s going to be pissed off when she sees that. Still, that’s her problem. This is certainly not the first time her stuff has been gathered up and removed. One of the assistant principals did it last year and told her that she must work at her desk and cannot take over various communal faculty rooms at the school. Well, it took about a year for the boxes and piles to build up again.

Anyway, here’s a couple of pictures. You be the judge:

Miss Kitten's desk with colleague Pink Lady's desk on the left. See the origami garden on the window sill?

I should point out that our desks don’t normally look this clean and neat. We spent several hours organising and discarding last year’s papers. I’m very pleased with the results. Our desks can get pretty messy when we get busy and don’t have the time to tidy up. However…

Here is Pack Rat's corner of the office. This is only one part of it. It wraps around to the right.

No wonder she doesn’t like to work at her desk. I mean, look at it? Who would? Most of the stuff shown in the picture was there before I moved more stuff from the faculty computer room.

It is not my intention to come off sounding like a holier-than-thou bitch. I can certainly be messy at times and I don’t mind messes. Most of them, anyway. Life is often messy and I enjoy cleaning it up. No really, I do enjoy cleaning. What I can’t stand is clutter. Particularly, pointless clutter on this scale. I’m concerned for my colleague’s mental health. She’s making working conditions for herself and colleagues unpleasant.

I can only imagine what her house must look like.

WOTD: Spam

When I was little I sometimes went to stay with my great-grandmother for a day or two. She was in her 80s but she was a lot of fun. Everything in her house was old, but she came from a time when things were built to last. Her refrigerator was an ancient propane gas Servel from the 1950s, which still worked prefectly. She had held on to a lot of stuff from days gone by: boxes full of fascinating old clothing such as arm-length satin gloves, shoe boxes of old photographs, and even a few old magazines full of pictures of women in Christian Dior New Look dresses. Eventually all this ended up being given to my mother. I loved looking through the magazines and at the old pictures, mezmerized by the faces of people who were long dead.

Anyway, one day I was flipping through one of my great-grandmother’s old Harper’s Bazaar magazines from the 50s. In the midst of all the advertisements for cigarettes and liquor was an ad for Spam. I clearly recall what was written on the ad and will probably remember it forever:

Spam: The Ham that Didn’t Pass its Physical.

Isn’t that great?

Back in those days Spam was a canned meat product. Its name is a combination of the words “spiced” and “ham.” To me it’s always been one of those foods that older people eat. In fact, the only occasions on which I ever ate Spam was during those visits to my great-grandmother’s house. She always seemed to have some and she used to make us fried Spam, which was actally pretty good. It didn’t taste anything like ham, though.

Today, lower-case spam is something completely different. Wikipedia defines it as “unsolicited or undesired electronic messages.” These can come in many forms including emails and comments on blogs. We at Random Misanthrope use an application called Akismet which politely and discreetly moves comments which smell like spam to their own special folder. Today I saw that we had six comments sitting in our spam queue, so I thought I’d take a look. This one comment caught my eye because it reads like it was written by a Nigerian prince:

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All this was apparently the introduction to the last word, hydraulic, which was a (now broken) link. As you can see the comment is written in the all-too-familiar awkward style associated with Nigerian spam emails. Most of the language is sort of correct but definitely not standard English, “completely rather interesting” being a key example. One wonders if this was generated by a spambot programmed to make the comments or emails read like that.

If so, then why?

Oh why?