the deeper resonances

In retrospect he finds it hard to believe he was actually capable of giving life... remote the more he thinks about it. The life force that seems to come of its own accord, free of premeditation or constraints. He wishes it was infectious, her vitality, her confidence, her devotion but knows she's paying a price she can’t afford. If anything, he has to give her more. He has to find a way.

Electro Shock

"There’s all this electromagnetic current," Gracie explains. "The kind you can test with devices that make skin contact. You know, like EEGs and EKGs and that sort of thing, but what I want to know is where does all that energy go when a person dies, the field around the body, the one that intersects and surrounds us, the vibrational field…”

She says, "People didn’t vacate lower Manhattan because of the toxic residue. They didn’t vacate out of fear. They vacated because of the massive amount of electromagnetism unleashed into the atmosphere by 3,000 dying and deceased people.”

MoneyTalks

another excerpt from September 10th

Doubling over with cramps he gasps for air, clean air, struggles to rid the poison from his lungs, the bile from the complimentary meal, his stomach rebelling. This time heaving uncontrollably he’s unable to make it to the bathroom. With the sleeve of his shirt he wipes off his mouth, stands up and leans against the cool wall of windows for support. Pushing the curtains aside he looks down at Times Square. Must be hallucinating, he thinks. It is vacant, empty of pedestrians. Then again he’s unsure that he is capable of distinguishing between reality and nightmare. Is he awake or asleep? Has he been asleep all this time? Did this really happen? With the plastic Marriott pen he punctures the flesh on his forearm. No, he is not asleep; this is definitely not a dream.

The paper in the vinyl folder with the embossed logo is so clean and crisp. He pages through the Welcome book and looks at the lists—restaurants, shopping, attractions, room service, places of worship. Flashing back to the plaza downtown it appears as an altar of human sacrifice. Like the toxic dump of humanity, mangled among the remains of the supreme excesses of architecture, the World Trade Center. Man created it. Man takes it away. There is no god to blame here. Not that he ever thought there was one but now he’s sure and strangely takes comfort in the fact.

excerpt from September 10th

The crack of ice reverberates like a dissonant intruder moving through the loft-like space. Pacing the site line from the euro kitchen back to the drawing table seems like the longest walk of the century, his only solace in the smooth jolt of transparent liquor diminishing from his water glass.

too late

In the distance a large crane like a giant insect moves across the Brooklyn waterfront near the site where Brian had developed the architectural design for sustainable living, a joke as far as he is concerned in a world that no longer deserves to exist, and for all intents and purposes would not, not in the same context no matter what measures are taken or how determined its inhabitants. Bottom line: it is too late, too little too late—an expression that whirs inside his head like the rotors of a helicopter that maintains position and altitude but cannot advance or land. Too little too late…too little too late.