a journal on the writer's role in society edited by esther altshul helfgott ____________________ |
... Everybody knows what the context is. Since September 11, everybody's feelings are public: we have them in common. The time for the merely personal is over. When we put our words out there, the feelings of the audience are part of the experience. The writer grieves, the hearers grieve, and the grief is the same. So when we bring our writing out into the light of day it will be in just the way that flowers, photos, cards, and ribbons are assembled into memorials in public places whenever disaster strikes. We're part of a healing process that has to go on, and has to take in an ever-widening circle, become world-wide ... |
THE 'S' WORD The plethora of Arab-sounding names rings in my ears long after I have turned off CNN. My skin feels gritty with imaginary sand from foreign deserts. Hair is tangled from the whap of copter blades. But here in the apartment all is silent, warm against new winter darkness. Door is locked, the blinds are closed, I almost say the 'S' word I've denied myself in recent weeks. I drop my clothes into the basket, pad into the bathroom. Now my cordless shaver is deployed, attacks the north side of my face but runs into some pockets of resistance near the Adam's apple. Special forces are called in. And when it's over, skin is sore, and I reflect that victory is never final. In the tub hot water falls upon me. I am clean again. No desert sand, no anthrax spores, no journalistic voices saying nothing's ever going to be the same. For just a moment, I feel safe. |
Len Siddhartha |
">
">
">
">
a journal on the writer's role in society edited by esther altshul helfgott ____________________ |
Len Siddhartha grew up in New Jersey, with the New York City skyline hard-wired into his memory. Lived first in Rutherford, blocks from William Carlos Williams' house. Went to college in New Brunswick, a short walk from Joyce Kilmer's trees. Crossed into Philadelphia like Ben Franklin via Walt Whitman's Camden. He's lived in the Puget Sound area more than half his life, writes fiction and poetry and, lately, pores over the news. Like it or not, every writer has been deputized: we are all battlefield journalists now. If I wake up in the night and hear my wife crying out with some nightmare she's having, there's nothing she or I can say about it that is just about her, or me. It's blindingly clear there is a larger context for her nightmare... copyright2001Len Siddhartha |
Dear Esther: Like it or not, every writer has been deputized: we are all battlefield journalists now. If I wake up in the night and hear my wife crying out with some nightmare she's having, there's nothing she or I can say about it that is just about her, or me. It's blindingly clear there is a larger context for her nightmare... -Len |
