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Talkin' 'bout my generation

ESN note: adding to filters may set off the befriending event! 'cause $NAME already had me added, and I asked to be added to a filter, and now I evidently am and I got a befriended-notification.

I'm having entirely too much fun over at efw. All the fun of a flamewar, and no hurt feelings!

Plasma was rather typical. I walked in right in the middle of X-Men 3, right as Phoenix is foreshadowing what's going to happen to poor Magneto, and stayed for most of the football game. As it's after midnight now, I can happily say that I managed to avoid overt displays of histrionic pseudo-patriotism, though there were a few references in the football game broadcast, and I got linked to a truly lovely and heart-wrenching Dr. Who fic. "Of More Value than Many Sparrows" 'Cause yeah, the Doctor would. I don't even know from Doctor Who, hardly, and I still know this.

Things not to do when the roommate is asleep: move the plastic bucket with all the long assorted pole-things (mop handle, broom, besom, wooden sword, staff, umbrella) and have it keep tipping and bang into that loud metal folding chair as it rocks 'cause you set it down on one of the cluebats.

Other things to avoid: lifting and carrying anything over 10 pounds on those two days out of the week that you've given plasma. (Takes more out of me than I thought it did.) (Well, I know it only takes .904 liters out of me, but meh.)

I have recovered the hissstorical fic out of e-mail logs (yay e-mail logs!) and have it in an open text file. Which is a start. A distinct start. I also printed it out (note to self: start collecting one-sided recycle-paper for printing things I don't care about having messy) and shoved it in my bag.

Sis IMed. I relayed hugs for the LF (OMG, I started writing my journal at ten!) and collected greetings. They have a gander named Daffy! Well, perhaps "have" is kind of a strong word for it, as he showed up and decided to stay. The LF has gotten so tall. She sent pictures. Dawn called. I relayed greetings and went squeeful about Darkside's mom attempting to draft me for the Great Teaching Darkside to Clean Project.

Maybe if I get very ambitious and put down a tarp or something, I'll finally spray-paint the Green Monstrosity into midnight-blue submission.


It's been five years and I'm still reacting. I remember that the news hit like a slap. I was up early enough and at school to be awake before the first plane hit, and I tuned in to the news that was on in the TV in the pit when the words registered. I was panicked, calling Sis on the cellphone, leaving a message telling her for gods' sakes turn on the news (she wasn't awake yet; this was while she was still in school after the breakup, and she'd stopped going to our breakfasts) and I sat there in the cafeteria, writing in my paper journal and shaking and clinging to Darkside. We were all in shock. Tea is a very highly-developed sane response to crisis, because in cases of shock it gets some hot liquids into the body. I didn't think about tea. I just thought about my responsibility to keep taking notes, to keep everyone around me informed. We were glued to the TV. I don't think anybody went to class. Darkside was taking care of me after my internal systems had decided that there was Not Much I Could Do, so it was OK to go into barely-functional-shock. I hadn't remembered until I went back and read the notes I'd made in LJ that he'd taken such an active role in caring for me. I was all over the place all day, with too much buzz and not enough brain. I was so scared not knowing who was doing this. I was thinking about Challenger. This is my generation's Challenger. I blew out the TV when changing the channel, I was so wound-up. We eventually sat down and watched Bush, cutting him in and out with a Barney tape. We'd completely lost it by then. We were giggling in the sheer silliness of watching the Shrubbery alternate words with the Purple Menace.

I didn't cry. Not for three days. Not until I'd found out that everyone I knew who had reason to be there was safe.

Once the Shrubbery got his hands on it, though, it was all over. I shied away from it and hard. The reactions of the administration after that point not only lost global goodwill, but lost mine. I retreated from pride in the US to wondering if I shouldn't apply for citizenship on LJ.

I avoid all media/government/organized remembrance of September 11, 2001 now, because I don't want to watch it be commercialized, canned, and used to shove more crap down our throats. Not more of that. George Bush & co. could have earned my goodwill. They managed to fuck it up all the way down. I'm waiting now to see if the next administration is any better. If not, I'll start looking at my options. I'm not brave. I don't stand out, not when I've been emotionally battered into a state of retreat. I might just hide inside myself and watch the world go to hell around me. I might leave the country. I don't know.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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