UNREQUITED LOVE LETTER

• “There is no love in the hearts of men.”
• Excerpt from: THE MIND OF REBECCA SAUNDERS.

Dear Malcolm;

The Love Affair that lived somewhere in a world of beautiful green grass adorned with the fresh smell of spring and streaming little peaks of magnificent sun rays adding its warmth, has Mr. Billy Joel on the other side waiting for me. Yes Billy Joel. The Singer, with the goatee that hugged his perfectly outlined lips and strong chin. WAIT!!!!! Agony. Uncertainty. Despair. The pain of unbridled longings I see in his eyes. The pain and the suffering. Why are those demons cradling his tormented soul? I long to reach out to him, to erase away the pain with the warmth of my love, to flee from the wickedness that now possess him. To the demons, I say: You perpetrators of doom and destruction.....release him, I say! RELEASE HIM!! Don't you hear me, you grotesque beings?! Let my love live in the beauty that lies dormant within, give him to me!

The pain and suffering of Billy Joel gave him character in my mind. I long to be with him, to give him the comfort, the love, the real joy of understanding and guiding the pain that torments him, to re-channel his unhappiness with real love....not love of the beast or the flesh  that lies within, but the love of another who truly cares...to help him to release all the torment....why you say, I share this with you? I know not. I sat looking across the French Quarters where we stay. It’s 3AM and I can’t wind down....looming out in the feistiest night replaying over and over in my mind is Billy Joel song: “I’m in a New York State of Mind.” 

The thoughts of you, Malcolm, illuminate in my mind.....your writing and most of all the paintings you shared with me. Your paintings remind me of the dark things that take up residence in all of us...laced with the early morning freshness of a new day (beginnings and releasing)....holding hands, laughing with individuals as a part of one's inner circle, and little cafe and Billy Joel song: “I'm in a New York State of Mind” took me back to the memories I tucked gently away of the man to whom I have connected spiritually, and yet have never met. You see all this came in one gushing moment, these thoughts of Billy Joel, song: “I’m in a New York State of Mind.”

His wretched soul beckons to me. I use to lie on my unmade bed for many nights and days filling my soul with the torment of this man. Something in your writings took me back to the time when my mind was in a place of Nina Simone’s thoughts. How those wonderful, benign thoughts of the intricate delicacies of the things that others around me thought were morbid. Thinking back, one went as far to say: “The mind of an intelligent, young black girl who should not be thinking or reading such things.” 

My thinking was focused and sharp. My analytical reasoning was on target, but I was a freak to my family; confused and crazy to my peers; arrogant, willful radical to The White Man. I couldn't get enough of the fascination of the things that others had written. The veracity in which I hunger for the things that were in those books....the longing of my wretched soul. I was told that my adolescence was filled with a twisted sort of joy powered by the demons. I was told that those demons had possessed my naïve, and yet sinister heart. But were they demons, I now ask, or is this perhaps the beginning of the Fast Forward of what others thought? 

Things were so clear and defined during that period. What went wrong? Where did I get lost?

     The movie, The Exorcist was my first introduction into the abyss of demonology. The twisted fascination and love for it, yet the fear of its evil power that changed me

forever. Years later, Billy Joel became the focal point in my mind of the torridness of a man with whom I fell in love off in the distance. I never told anyone this before. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, but the next phase of my life was the love of Sicilian men, not just any Sicilian man, mind you, but that of a gangster. IE: A head of a Mafia family. The fascination grew from the age of 13. I fantasized about being married to one of those heartless, bloodthirsty Cretans. 

How I longed for the cradling protection and the raw passion from the very men I feared the most. 

The twisted the designs of my burgeoning mind. 

The dark longings of my inexperienced heart. 

How my young eyes saw romance and adventure where only ancient death and betrayal existed.

You know, chatting with you the other night, brought back the fears of The Fast Forward. In the beginning of meeting someone I tend to listen more than speak, but if I feel the conversation isn’t moving along as it should, I will say something to bring it back in gear...and back to my silence. I’m an extremist: Either I’m all talk or all the silence. I haven’t yet learned that balance thing.

There is something in your tranquility that stirs my soul. Somehow you are the key to opening the door for me to go backwards. Something in your stories, your work, and your responses penetrate the core to where I am running. It’s not explainable at the moment, but nonetheless, it’s there. When I understand and can shape it into words, I will share it with you.

I’m better expressing my feelings through writing rather than conversing. I get all caught up in the details. I was accused, on many occasions, as being to direct and needed to re-assess my responses. So now I’m entrenched into the Politically Correct bullshit of those who fear to offend. Using many words to say nothing: Vapid volumes in lieu of a few pertinent sentences. And now I’m accused of serving up condescending tripe, willful callousness and wordy deliveries. In my line of work (communication), everything has to be dissected, explained in detailed, and aim at a target group or groups. And then again I use that same rhetoric to bury the real purpose. 

It’s impossible to become a sound and sane individual using the blueprints of a dysfunctional society. 

But the majority of us still continue to try.

They say I killed those men, but in all honesty I cannot recall. I do not remember their deaths. They say I sliced them open from chin to groin when they were at the crescendo of their respective orgasms. But I do not remember their deaths. I do remember searching for the love, they promised, amidst the bloody ruins that was once their beating hearts. But I do not remember their deaths. 

I can still hear that song as we walked down Bourbon Street. Do you remember? Do you remember the time we walked and held hands and talked? Do you remember all the plans we never made? But I guessed what saved you was that you never said you loved me. You never made any promises. Hence, I had no expectations of which you could not fulfill. But I just couldn’t just enjoy the song. No. I had to take it down a long and spiraling journey to hear it. I dissected it looking for its promises of love.

The paintings and stories of which you shared, all had a positive affect on me. But it didn’t last very long. 

Yesterday was long, unproductive day filled with the usual amount of bullshit. I wanted to tell you something. Something I think is important. But the words escape me at the moment. Ha ha. I gotcha. When have you ever known me to be at a loss for words?

I’ve been re-reading your one-liners and they are a comfort. When reading them I ran across the one picture you named: "Torment." The one where you’re staring into its bleakness. It had taken me back to the 11th of September, 2001.  It caused me to ask myself questions about things to which I still have no answers. Unlike most, it's hard for me to let go and forget. 

     Malcolm, this is not to bring you down, but to share with you what I see when I look into the eyes of  "Torment" personified. The harshness of reality and the fleeting moments of perceptions intertwined with the events of the day leave one to wonder what is it all about.  The time code of this past year (September 11, 2001, 8:45- 9:08 AM) will forever be etched in the lives of all Americans here and abroad. The security blanket and lives of sugarplums have lost the zest it once held. Hell has no fury as the scorned of a woman, is a quote or perhaps something I picked up along the way, not for sure at the moment. Maybe more like the hatred of individuals.

Don't you think? 

Tell me what were you doing at the moment you heard a plane “accidentally” plunged into the first tower?  What was your initial response to this unfortunate tragedy? Were you still trying to ingest the pieces of information? Did “OH MY GOD!!” scream inside your skull? Were you still reeling from the first projectile of death when the other smashed into the second tower?

 “OH MY GOD!!! OH MY HEAVENLY FATHER!!! DID YOU SEE THAT?!!”  Those were the words of a horror-struck colleague who was standing alongside me as we watched the second plane. Chaos and pandemonium changes one's little orderly world forever. It certainly did with me. 

I see hopelessness when I stare into the painting "Torment."

Television gave you images of the chaos, but the terror was more horrific in the midst of the events. Actually being at "Ground Zero" was an experience beyond words.

Did you reach out to call the ones that mean a great deal to you, or do you begin to examine the facts that led to the events?  Where did you gravitate first to bring some understanding to what you just heard? Did you pick your children up and hold them close? Did the fear grip you with a suffocating intensity? Did you paint this picture after 9/11 or was it a prophetic rendering?  Who are the dark images that haunt the painting? Were you in agony when painting or perhaps you simply had gas from that chili you had for lunch and were trying to find a way to release the discomfort in a non-traditional manner? Did your heart swell with raw, mindless feeling for the lives of the individuals who were slaughtered? Were you able to wrap your mind around this unexplainable attack and destructions?  Did the words: “No! This is not right!” echo throughout your mind? Did it offend your sense and sensibilities? Did you think of the ones that this insanity and chaos left behind? Did you examine your life and see ways on how you can improve it? Have you made peace with yourself and the ones you care about, because death can knock on your door at anytime? 

Today twinges of being around relatives and still staring into the abyss of the painting. I think that each and every life is far too short and far too precious too squander. 

Did you begin asking your loved ones or associates for forgiveness of past and present transgressions? Did you examine your feelings to determine to what degree does all of this affect you? 

Where were you? Were you on your way to the office or were you already there? Were you taking your children to the sitter or did just dropping them off?  Did you give them an extra hug without really knowing why? 

It's so important to show love to the ones we love and care about. Did you call your parents? Did you wonder quietly to yourself why things are happening the way it has? Tell me please what were some of your thoughts, your feelings. Did you experience moments of rage and  helplessness? Were you overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all or just mortified?  What were you experiencing? Were stunned and unable to digest such large dosage of alien carnage? Was the brutal reality force-feeding you? Perhaps you care not to relive it via sharing. If that’s the case, I understand. 

When I was New York last year, I relived the panic and fear. I thought about the two personal friends who lost their lives in the attack on the Pentagon. I looked deeper into the painting and I saw their faces, their fear, and the things that must have been going through their minds before their final ascending or descending to their resting place. These men had families in California and had been away from their families a little under a year. They were on TDY (Temporary Duty) at Kennedy Space Center and were so happy to be finally going home to their wives and children.  They were redesigning the structural, and other engineering problems going on with the Space Shuttle and they were part of an Engineering Team deployed their a year prior to 9/11 to work out the bugs.

I met an Irishman about six months before the premature demise of The Twin Giants. When I stare into the painting I see the Irishman: Enchanting, humorous, enlightening and funny, and let's not forget handsome and sexy. He too sported a Van Dyke.  We were developing a friendship. Well, at least trying to develop one. But I wasn't able to relax with him. It bothered me that he hated black men and yet wanted to sleep with as many black women as possible. A curious dichotomy, huh? He made mention that a black man saved his life 10 years ago. He was on the streets. A drug addicted waste of flesh with his then, three small children from a marriage (to a White woman) that had gone bad. He spoke of a black man who he says scooped him up from the bowels of doom, gave him shelter for he and his three small children, got him into a rehab clinic, and paid for him to get some training to keep him off the streets of Newark. And yet he has the tremendous hate for black men! What is that about??? Oh well. To each his own, right? We all have different eyes with which we see the world and the people who live in it.

Anyway, the point of this is to say, in spite of myself, I began liking him. There was nothing intimate other than our talks, a few dinners, shows, and numerous jazz concerts. And unbeknownst to me, he was in a relationship with two other black women. They both wanted him to married them, but he pursued me because I was impervious to his beguiling wit and charm. But I must confess that he had me spellbound at first, but it quickly faded like so much cigarette smoke. One of the women had her mind and heart set on making him her husband. Her plan was to become pregnant, hence forcing him to marry her. I thought that to be such 50’s thinking.  Well, after a year there is a baby and no wedding band around her finger. That “honor” had gone to another.  This is becoming somewhat soap operaesque, huh? But wait! It gets better. Being the little snoop and grasping woman that she was, she retrieved my phone number from his caller ID and my name from the purse I left at his place. You’re probably saying to yourself: “I can believe that a woman would leave her purse anywhere behind.” Well, that was the first sign that I was coming undone. A sign, of which, I took absolutely no notice. Or possibly my denial obscured my view. No matter. Anyway, I was at his place because his 18-year-old son passed away a year ago this past May and I was at his place paying my respects and offering my condolences. In my haste to catch my flight home, I had forgotten my purse.

Now back to the woman: She was this middle-aged, pathetic thing, who became pregnant and had a baby and became desperate enough to call me. She was expectedly hostile, I was furious. What really pissed me off was that she actually used my cell phone (it was in the purse I left behind) to call and harass me. But after all was said and done, we became friends. And despite my advice to the contrary, she uses her own child as a pawn. She refuses to allow him to see the baby unless he divorces the woman and marries her. Love’s Hostage. That would make a nice title for a Country and Western song, huh? Anyway, although I don’t agree with her tactics, I do understand them. I gave her the emotional support she needed, and acted as the mediator between the two of them, which I may add, was extremely awkward, to say the least. All I wanted to do was gracefully bow out from the middle. The job of a buffer is rarely an easy or pleasant one. I wanted to say to her: “Please. This is not my concern. You’re a big girl and you understand the game.”

You know? I don't have clue as to why I am telling you all this. I guess it was one of those fleeting thoughts that needed an audience, huh? I'm sure there’s some significance as to why I brought all that to light. I simply can't remember what it is. Presupposing, of course, the reason ever existed.

Well. Anyway, that nice, young doctor said I’ve been showing marked improvement since I tried to kill that low-life, son-of-a-bitching orderly. He made promises so he could fuck me. He told me he loved me so I would suck his cock. I almost had his chest op----WAIT!! I REMEMBER WHY!!! Wow! Wow! Now I remember!. Wow! Wow! Wow! Now I believe what you said about me not being able to carry out a single thought, oh well here's the thought before I forget it. The both of them called me a week before the incident with the financial Leviathans last year: I, me, Ms. Thang, just had too much on her mind concerning work to continue playing go-between for those two. He understood, but she didn't. She cried, and was feeling hurt because I could not give her my undivided attention. I simply couldn’t. Work was kicking me in the behind, budgets, hostile take over, many things were going at the same time. Each session with the needful bitch drained me, leaving me lethargic. I can only take so much of this emotional vampire. I simply couldn’t understand what was going on inside that maelstrom of synaptic chaos that passed for thought inside the whacked out head of hers. After all, this was her fourth child, so I simply couldn’t comprehend why the whole process was still a stranger to her. I’m a woman, but there are times I haven’t a fucking clue as to what is going on in the heads of other women. Anyway, in the midst of the devastating chaos of September 11th my thoughts were of this woman and her relatively insignificant problems. All I wanted to do was walk away and never look back, and yet I had this overwhelming need to reach out and apologize for avoiding her. I tried several times but the damned cell phone wouldn't work.  

Shit! I keep losing my concentration. Why the hell am I telling you all this? Fuck! It’ll come to me again. 

Back to other stuff: The purpose of this lengthy bits of incoherent thought is to say, sitting here looking at the painting, is………... That fucking painting! Why am I drawn to the Goddamned painting?! I keep wondering what thoughts or demons were or perhaps still eating away at your soul. Where in your mind does this torment and pain resides? Does painting help to relieve some of the torment? How hard are those feelings of hopelessness and despair tugging at you? Or am does the rendering simply reflect the demons of pain and despair in me? Shit! This stuff could drive a person crazy! I simp---AH! It’s come back to me! I remember why I brought up that needful thing. She was the one and only woman I’ve ever killed! And I remember her death! I remember how I allowed her life to slowly drain away from her. She had drained the life out of so many people. So many good people who tried to help her. And after all was said and done, the only thing that came from it was this feeling of loathing and disgust for the sorry bitch. 

I remember. It was early on a Thursday evening. She had called to fill my ear with yet another chapter from her miserable book of life. The very moment I heard her voice, I had decided to kill her. After hanging up, I went over to my utility closet and started rummaging around. I needed something. I didn’t know what. Just something. And then I saw it what I needed on the top shelf: A can of cleaning fluid. I snatched it from its resting place and slipped it into the back pocket of my baggy Khakis, grabbed my coat and keys and strolled out of my apartment. Walking through the Village, I had plenty of time to change my mind. I should’ve shot into the nearest bar and poured bourbon down my throat until somebody had to pour me into a cab and point it home. But needless to say, I didn’t. The only thought that was driving my legs to carry me forward was: “I’ve got to put the bitch out of my misery.”

I arrived at her apartment door and repeatedly knocked. She sounded drunk on the phone so I could only hope that she slipped on her own vomit in the bathroom and rammed her head against the toilet or the tub and died. But the sound of her old, crusty fuzzy slippers scraping against the hardwood floor popped that lovely bubble. 

After undoing what seemed like a dozen locks, she slowly opened the door about an inch and peeked through the crack. When she saw it was me, she opened the door all the way. Her hair was all matted and nappy; her eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying.

“I’m glad you came,” she slurred.

“No problem,” I said. She offered me a weak smile and a sigh as I brushed by her. She smelled bad. The stench of cheap booze just oozed from every unwashed pore. And her breath was foul enough to make my eyes water. She closed the door and engaged all the locks and turned around. She looked like a little girl who just found out her puppy died. Her apartment was unnaturally quiet. I mean, with four kids, you’d think you’d hear something, right? It was only about 7:30 in the evening and she invariably allowed the kids to stay up to well past midnight.

“Where’re the kids?” I asked.

“With my mother,” she mumbled.

“I need to use your bathroom,” I announced. I’d been running off of coffee all day and needed to relieve myself.

“Feel free,” she mumbled and unsteadily gestured in the direction of the door at the end of the long hall.

I turned and made my way to the bathroom. En route I noticed that her place was mess. Chinese take-out cartons and pizza boxes were strewn all over the living room. This chick was definitely a mess. She had more problems than I was willing or able to deal with. Anyway, I entered the large bathroom and closed the door behind me. The bathroom was a mess. Towels and clothes littered the floor and hung from on the drawn shower curtain and every hook available. I had to clean the toilet before I sat down. It was simply too disgusting. As I sat and thought about what I was doing there, four words shot into my head like searing bolts of lightning: Her mother is dead. I remembered her telling me that last year. That her mother was killed by a drunk driver 4 years ago. What in the hell was going on? After I finished my business, I just stood there staring at the shower curtain. I didn’t want to draw that expanse of mold-laden plastic, but something forced my hand to grab it and whip it to the side. What I saw in the tub nearly caused my knees to buckle: All four of her kids were floating on their backs with the expression of terror etched on their tiny faces. Rage and hatred for the woman threaten to shatter my skull. And then this weird calm came over me. I grabbed my bag from the floor and dig inside for the can of cleaning fluid and unscrewed the cap. I snatched a hand towel from a pile on the floor and emptied the contents of the can into the towel. I calmly replaced the cap to the can and gently placed it on the floor. I slowly pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall and started strolling like I was in a park enjoying the sights and sounds of nature in lieu of heading to kill a woman. I found her sitting at the kitchen table. She had an opened bottle of cheap vodka in front of her and she gulping from a tumbler. Her back was to me. I crept up behind, grabbed her by her filthy, matted hair and whipped her head back and covered her mouth and nose with the hand towel. She struggled for a few moments and then her body went limp. I checked her neck for a pulse before allowing her unconscious form to drop to the kitchen floor. I draped the towel on the back of chair before heading over to the cupboard where she stored her pots and pans. I pulled out the largest pot I could find and place it on the table, knocking over the vodka bottle and cleaning fliud container. The clear liquids ran along the table’s surface and started to drip onto the linoleum floor below. That was the only sound I heard. Not her raspy breathing. Not the pounding pulse inside my skull. Not my own foot falls as I rummaged through her desk, in the living room, in search of a Magic Marker. Drip. Drip. Drip, is what I heard when I found a 20-foot length of rope and a roll of duct tape in her hall closet. Drip. Drip. Drip, echoed in my head when I lovingly removed the children from the tub, dried them, dressed them in their Sunday best, and then lied them down, side by side, on her bed. I attempted to close their eyes and massage some of the horror from their sweet, little faces, but only managed to close their eyes. Just that rhythmic sound of Drip. Drip. Drip. It was deafening. It seemed to fuel the rage and hatred I felt bubbling to the surface again.  I entered the kitchen, grabbed the large pot and tilted it so I could write on the side, in big, bold black letters, the word: “PITY.” I took the pot, tape and rope and headed back to the bathroom. I placed the pot on the floor near the toilet, and dropped the rope and tape into the pot. I then returned to kitchen. I knelt down and checked pulse. Good. It was strong and steady. I grabbed her by the hair and dragged the filthy bitch to the bathroom, stepped into the tub and pulled her in. I pulled a pair of panty hose from the shower curtain rod, rolled her over and tied her hands behind her back. I then retrieved the rope from the pot, tied one end around her swollen ankles, throw the other end over the showerhead pipe and then pulled until her head was dangling about two feet from the tub floor. I tied the rope off onto a nearby steam pipe. I snatched up the pot and placed under her head making certain that ‘PITY’ was in plain sight. I pulled a small ball, I found in one of the kid’s rooms, from my pocket and forced it into her mouth, retrieved the tape from the pot, pulled off about a foot-long strip, tossed the roll aside, and then sealed her mouth with tape. I then, with great reluctance, went into her bedroom in search of a needle or pin. On my way to her dresser, I stop and stood at the foot of the bed and just stared down at the children. I have no idea for how long. I was pleased to see that death had relaxed the muscles in their faces. They looked like they were taking a nap in lieu of being murdered by their mother. I smiled, then went over and planted a kiss on each of their foreheads. 

“Good bye,” I whispered. “Say hello to Grandma for me.”

I returned to the bathroom with needle in hand. I squatted down, reached over and made a dozen (or so) tiny pricks in her Jugular vein and Carotid artery. The blood started to flow in steady, thin streams down the sides of her face and into her hair before they eventually began to drip into the pot. I then went into the kitchen for a glass. The only one that wasn’t immersed into the stagnant sink-water was the tumbler that dropped from her when I rendered her unconscious. I picked it up and returned to the bathroom and filled it with cold water from the sink and tossed the frigid contents in her face and waited for her to join the rest of us in the land of consciousness. Her eyes stared to blink. She tried to focus through a haze of cleaning fluid and Vodka and confusion. I wanted her to suffer, but for some reason I didn’t want to witness it.  So, I got up and left. A week later, some one in her building called the cops to report a strange smell coming from her apartment. Do me a favor, ok? Please don’t mention this to anyone. As far as the cops are concerned, they have an unsolved, quadruple-homicide case on the books. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mind being tagged for the murder of that self-absorbed bitch who killed her own children. Nope. I wouldn’t mind at all. After all, they’ve already stuck me in this snake pit for thirteen murders, one more won’t make much difference, right? It’s just that I’d have a hard time convincing the cops I didn’t kill those poor kids. I don’t want anyone thinking I could do anything that heinous. Thanks, babe.

Anyway, on the 11th of September, 2001, I was at one of our offices on Trinity Place at 5:30 AM to use their color copier. From there I went back to the office a couple blocks away. At 6:30 AM the electricians came in and we sat, chatted and laugh for a good 20 minutes. We talked about nothing and everything. One of the men one offered me half his bagel, but before I could answer, his partner announced: “Forget about it. She’s so paranoid about germs and uncleanness of the vendors downstairs, she wouldn’t step in anything they sell, let alone eat it.” There was a brief, uncomfortable moment of silence before the three of us looked at each other and then burst into laughter. After I calmed down, I went about preparing myself for the meeting to take place later that morning at the WTC. The phone rang, it was the Chief Engineer calling to see if everything was all right and inquiring of my state of mind in light of the impending meeting. He also wanted to know if I had all the figures ready to present to CFO, EVP of our division. He also questioned if I had allowed some cushion in event of emergencies. He always calls to see how I am.  I asked him why he was always in my face, and he said I reminded him of his ex-wife. Shit! Excuse me. I'm Black. He took me aside after my insensitive remark, and he goes: “No. Excuse me. My ex-wife is black.” I felt so very stupid and small not thinking on the interracial lines at all, just the Black vs. White of our association. My thoughts were interrupted by words he spoke to me: “You are wound up tight into your own little world afraid to let anyone in.” And coupled with the panic of someone speaking to me with concern for my well-being or showing any genuine interest in me as a person other than business. I just reflexively shoot up barriers that go up higher and become thicker as my paranoia induced suspicion grows. And the irony of it all was, as much as kept this man at a distance, everyone thought he and I were inseparable, and in fact the morning of all the chaos, another engineer came over to said: “I bet your boyfriend will love to see you are here today.” I glared an arsenal of poison-tipped daggers at him, and then suggested that he get off of his butt and get over to WTC to meet with the other engineers and technicians to bring some resolve to the problem that was encountered on the previous day.  I didn't like his remarks about the chief engineer (who was remarried) and me. His snide innuendos were not welcome  at all. I don’t know who coined that phrase, but familiarity does breed contempt.

     Tell me something besides, the whimsical, what was your interest in me? It's apparent you are an intelligent man, a successful man one who has beautiful children

and is doing the right thing by them. So what could’ve I possibly offered you? Sex? No. I don't think so. So, what?!  I always want to know the Whats, the Whys, and the Hows. This where I get caught up, always questioning motives and interests. I get so caught in analyzing something that I rarely get to enjoy it. You know (or maybe not) that black men think I'm an uptight “female” who looks through them instead of at them. And my traditional response would be: “Well, if you’re that transparent, then we really don’t have much to chat about, now do we?”  

I must confess that you keep me on my toes with your keen insight and astuteness. You’ve become a steady force in my life who acts as a stabilizer for me in a bizarre sort of way. And let's not forget this overwhelming need I have to be in your arms. To be comforted by you caring. I don't quite understand what I am feeling. I have not experienced feelings of a giddy teenager in a very long time.  I'm not for sure why this Need to understand and grow with you. Maybe it's a spiritual connection or something, huh?  What kindred spirit do we share? Do you know of something I don't?  Share one of those one liners of explanation and clarity, why don’t you? Share some of that knowledge, okay? And speaking of knowledge: I do recall we having a short conversation on the subject. We also touched on discipline and  pain and so on. If you don't mind sharing some with someone who is going backwards to find herself, okay? I don't quite get this, you have your pick of many women and you have chosen me……..for the moment. Are the one liners true of your feelings? Do you really mean them? Trust. I cannot express the need, not want, but need it in my life right now. All I want to know is how important is trust to you?  I have to examine everything, dissect everything and bottle and label what I find. I must resolve my previous commitments as soon as possible to get to you. To see what these feelings truly are. In just the three weeks we have been communicating. A mere three weeks. In your paintings I see these things. But I suspect you’re probably saying to yourself: ‘This chick is in need of some serious couch time.’  You probably perceive all of my rhetoric as unfounded rhetoric.

Back to business: At around 7:30 AM, or perhaps a little earlier, they (the two electricians and engineer) headed for the WTC, which is about an 8 to 10 minute walk from the building we were in.  About 20 to 30 minutes later, we received a phone call from a panicky messenger saying there was a bomb in lower Manhattan and he couldn't deliver the packages. I ran into the control room and switch the channel to the news and there it was: The WTC crumbling in searing ruin. I had not experience such raw, primal fear in all my life. I ran down the stairwell and exploded out of the front doors. Once on the street, I saw clusters of people in shock. They were crying and screaming and clinging on to one another. I made my way over the foot bridge with hopes of getting to the guys. I was just standing there looking up at what was left of the first tower, not really certain how much time had elapsed since the first collision. I suddenly heard a roaring noise. It was all so fucking surreal. I was thinking a tornado somehow popped into existence from thin air and…….Ah, hell! I don’t know what the fuck I thought! I looked up for dark twisting clouds, but what I saw was this large plane. It t was huge. It looked like a giant black bird gliding towards the second tower. This airborne David flying to take down the second Goliath. When the plane struck, I suddenly heard screaming. No. Not simply screaming. It was more like this inhuman shrieking of boundless terror. At first I thought it was me. They sounded like the high-pitched hysterics of a woman.  I turned to discover it was the man standing not three feet away. I stared at him, wondering why was he sounding like a bitch? (as black men call their “females”). But he couldn't be gay. He's married with two children, right? Were the faces of his children flashing through his mind causing him to screech like a terror-struck woman?  I began to wonder why these things were this going through my mind? Why was I thinking this about this poor man? What did that say about me? Anyway, he fled before I can to my senses and calm him down. He ran like all the people you’d see running from the big, bad monster in those ‘B’ horror flicks Hollywood had pumped out in the ‘50’s. I just stood there. Helpless. Numb. I stared at the back of his head until he vanished into a huge monster of dust and smoke. So, I ran back towards the studio to alert the others. At this time we were taking another power hit in the studio and had to transfer all the transponders. As I enter the studio, the engineers and technicians were working frantically to transfer the transponders to our sister facilities. Everything was going in slow motion. In the meanwhile: The building managers and supervisors and security personnel were trying to evacuate the building.  I left in a haze, and I wasn’t until  walking down Broadway, when I realized I had on heels and went back to the building, ignored the security guards warning to stay out, to get my sneakers. Enter the elevator (stupid me), rode up, casually exited the car and then leisurely strolled to the office and changed in my Reboks as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Then I went to the refrigerator to get my bottle of vitamin juice and then left the office and headed for the stairs. What was I thinking …..or not thinking? What fuzzy stage of reasoning was I in that would allow me to go back into an area that has been sectioned off as a hazardous area? What was preventing me from fully  comprehending the vastness of the situation? Where was my mind? Why was it in a zombie like state? Why wasn't I feeling? Why couldn't I feel? Why did I come back to NYC when I was supposed to be in Ohio that morning? Why did the assistant call us Monday morning to say she gave us incorrect information? We had to be in NYC and she had changed our flights to leave later that day.  What was the reasoning for me to be a part of the devastation? There’s a reason for everything. ‘God doesn’t shoot dice with the universe,’ as ol’ Albert was so fond of saying. But I'm not that close to God, so I don't have a clue as to whether or not he uses dice or takes his chances at the Black Jack table. Anyway,  I arrived in NYC late Monday evening, and was in the office on Tuesday, morning around 5:30AM.  Anyway, as I walking down the steps making my way to the outside after switching shoes and retrieving my vitamin juice.  I ran into an individual who was walking from the WTC where she successfully exited the building, she was distraught, and was trying to find a phone to call her family, but wasn't allowed back in the building, so she turned and made a comment that she saw someone moving around in the first Tower with flashlights. I turned to look up and saw nothing but the tower tumbling down. It was a matter of seconds before everything went black, it was horrible, could not see, (when I look at the images in the painting, "Torment" I relived all the agony) my breathing was labored, the fear of bombs were prevalent, we were instructed to run towards Battery Park and then someone yelled that they were bombing the Statue of Liberty. The only thing was real to all of us was the sound of low flying air crafts of some kind. Unbeknownst to us, they were ours, but we still couldn’t see them through all the dust and smoke and tears. Breathing continued to be difficult. I just stood in the middle of the street wiping my eyes and runny nose. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I wasn’t thinking of my family. I was not thinking of myself as I stood there covered from head to toe in ash, debris and human remains. I was tied of thinking. I was tired of trying to make sense of it all. I was tired of running to safety. If Death wanted me, then the son-of-a-bitch could have me. I was more than ready. I was tired of this bullshit existence long before 9-11.

Suddenly a man, a white man came over and started talking to me. At least I thought it was me. I just could understand what he was saying. He stopped talking when he noticed he was getting through. Some how I was mobile again, but I wasn't moving. I wasn’t sure what was going on. The air, breathing, a clarity of buildings slowly becoming slightly visible again. I'm asking myself: ‘How did I get here?’ The man said: ‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t realize that I had spoken out loud. He was holding me, saying we are safe now. I still wasn’t able to speak. This man still had a hold of me as we started running. Running. Holding. Running. Somehow we got to the ferry. He was still holding onto me as if to bring some emotional stability to himself. I was real, but the chaos all around him was not. As if I were his lifeline to saner reality. We boarded the ferry to Staten Island (all though he thought we were heading to Jersey). When we docked, as we stumbled off  the ferry there stood a lady offering help to the man and me and about 30 others that I hadn’t noticed on the ferry. But in reality: There were hundreds. Hundreds of people on that ferry. That floating savior. Hundreds. Even though we were safe, the man still held on to my arm. He continued to hold as we walked to an aid station. He continued to hold on as we sat and drank coffee covered in ash, debris, and human remains. I still couldn’t speak. But even if I could, I wouldn’t have asked him to let go. Even though he was a total stranger, he was my connection to the familiar. To the safe. To the sane. 

We shared a hotel room that night because there was only one left.  I was too tired to go home and too tired to look for another room. And so was he. He paid for the room. My purse was in the rumble that used to be the Twin Towers. He slept in one bed and he slept in the other. I still don’t know why I cut that poor man’s throat as he slept so peacefully. Had he not come along, I certainly would’ve died. Maybe that’s why. I was prepared to greet Death and happily go strolling off, arm-in-arm, with Grim Reaper, and then that man came along and fucked all that up for me.  

I awoke the next morning. I had no idea what time it was. And I really didn’t want to know. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the man. Except for the large, congealed gash spanning from ear to ear, he looked like he was sleeping. I suddenly realized that my confusion was gone. I knew why I did it, but I still don’t remember his death. I still can’t make the connection between cutting his throat and the light going out in his eyes. Why can’t I, Malcolm? Anyway, I got up and got dressed. I didn’t bother to take a shower. What would’ve been the point of covering a clean body with filthy, blood-stained clothes, right?

The attendant just walked in. I have to go now. It’s time for my medication and nap. They’re real sticklers about that.

I’ll write again soon.

Love,

Thalia

PS: I’m so glad you didn’t make any promises,   

Malcolm. And I’m really glad you never told me you loved me. I really am.

THE END

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