It is an odd world we live in today. Wire taps, no-fly lists, GPS records from our phones can be used as evidence. And in the flipside, I can see precisely where my Mom’s flight back from San Diego is at any time. We live in a fortress made of glass and funhouse mirrors – brittle, transparent, distorted and endlessly disorienting.
I have heard a lot recently about the role of writing, song, music, painting, in the tragic blank space in our souls that this event has left behind. Of course, this preoccupation is largely a result of an unconscious bias of the media. If pig farmers had as much currency with NPR as literary novelists, we would be hearing just as much about the healing power of bacon.