The Loss of Princess Diana

So, it's time for our second topic. The first was rather morose, and I'm afraid this one is, too. I promise that the next will be a little more uplifting. But until then...

I remember getting up in the wee hours of the morning to watch the Royal wedding on the day that Lady Diana Spencer married Prince Charles. I remember admiring the long flowing dress and the ornate pageantry - and I remember feeling both envy and pity as I watched the obviously nervous bride repeat her vows. Following the ceremony, I distinctly recall watching a news feed that showed royal children waving from a balcony to crowds pressed below. Wouldn't it be amazing, I thought, to grow up like that? My thoughts along those lines were fleeting, though, as I quickly remembered that "growing up like that" often required one to have one's address affixed to a fishbowl - cramped, wet quarters, indeed. Cameras, constant attention, and eyes-of-the-world might be nice for a gorgeous wedding day, but the inability to turn them off might just begin to weigh on one no less than the very next day. And so my original awe and envy were quickly replaced by quiet sympathy - enduring in gentle percolation for years, and culminating in near tears on August 31, 1997 - the day that Princess Diana died. Following is my journal entry, written 5 days afterwards.

- 9/5/97 -
This is my favorite time of day: right before dusk in the afternoon. The sun comes streaming in my window and I sit on my bed and gaze at the world around me. My thoughts at this time sometimes come thick and fast - an ideal setting for writing. But I didn't decide to create this entry to reflect on the beauty of the day. I create it to record a little piece of history...one that will undoubtedly be spoken of during my grandchildren's times...Princess Diana died.

Almost a week ago (Saturday night, U.S. time) I was watching television, and the station sent a textual bulletin that she had been injured in a car crash. Initially, I didn't think much of it. After all, people are injured in crashes every day. But the message continued, and I learned that her boyfriend had been killed in the wreck. At that point, I sat up and took notice. An accident accompanied by death is not trivial - no matter who survives. I still had no doubt, however, that Diana would survive. Looking back on this certitude, I can only explain it by supposing that I held the subconscious belief that Diana was somehow immortal. She was, my quiet, unreasonable inner thoughts held, too famous to die.

A little later, the news station informed us that Diana had suffered only a wound on her thigh and a concussion. Again, I was sure in the belief that she would live. I was wrong. Around midnight, the news cut in with a full visual broadcast: Diana had died. The newscaster was, in my mind, shockingly glib. Perhaps he was not aware of the sheer gravity of what he was saying. Perhaps he was blissfully ignorant of the fact that each word uttered was a sledgehammer beating against the emotions of those within the sound of his voice. I was shocked, and remained so until just yesterday. Denial set in hard - like concrete. I kept asking myself: Why did I care [so much]? She was a continent away. Why was I so affected? Perhaps, for 2 reasons: First and foremost, I immediately felt sorrow for her sons, William and Harry. That those boys would be required to face life without their mother was sobering indeed. Secondly, I couldn't help but reflect on my trip this summer. As I watched the news and saw a reporter standing in front of London Bridge, I thought, "I've been there." When the news camera lens focused on Buckingham Palace, I thought, "I've seen that." It was all infinitely more real to me. Here were people mourning, pouring out their emotions in a place that I had visited not 3 months before. So real.

I will watch the funeral tomorrow. To see it, I will need to rise at [4am] U.S. time. Surreal, isn't it? Don't I seem to recall having to rise early to see the wedding 16 years ago?...

Additionally, we learned today that Mother Theresa died of heart failure.
I'm living history.
Two giants have exited life's poor play, and left the audience wanting.

So ends the entry. Reading it again brings back to mind the sheer disbelief that I felt when I first learned that Princess Diana had died. As it happened, I had been on my first trip abroad just months prior, and London had been one of our first stops. After Princess Diana's death, I felt that I had been privileged to see the city beforehand - when it was still infused with her life instead of solely her memory.

What about you? Do you remember that day in August? Where were you, and how did you find out?

Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

September 11th

In remembrance of 9/11. Following is my journal entry from that day...

- 9/11/01 -

I will perhaps finish my above entry (I've gotten into a bad habit of not completing my writings), but I must now interrupt myself to convey the awful events of this solemn day. I have lived history today - not the mundane, vanilla sort that we all slip into every second of every minute of every hour of every day, but the heart-stopping thunderous history that punctuates the flow of time with infrequent severity. Today I woke up as I usually do - listening to Bob and Sheri on the radio. It was around 9:00 am, and I was in that calm state that follows drowsy wakefulness but precedes meaningful activity. As I listened, Sheri mentioned something about the World Trade Center. It was belching smoke, she said - the surreal result of an apparent plane crash. I was jolted slightly more awake as she continued. No one was sure, but a plane had apparently slammed full force into the building, setting off a fire. "I need to see this," I thought - rolling over to throw my legs over the bed and stumble towards the remote. I turned off the radio and replaced Bob and Sheri's voices with those of Fox News reporters. There, sure enough, was the image of the two towers - one of them with a gash 1/3 of the way down from its crown. Smoke was emanating from the wound - thick black smoke that billowed out like some ghostly glimmer of hell. I listened as the announcers speculated - some saying that it was a plane crash, others saying that no one knew for sure what had happened. As they were speaking, one voice suddenly became animated and shrilled above the others. "There's another one!" the astounded announcer said. "Another what?" I asked myself. "What is he talking about?" No sooner had I asked that question than I saw a fireball that hadn't been there a moment before. I was instantly struck by the presence of red fire flame in this new ghostly image - so much more like hell than the first. The former had boasted merely the cold pall of black smoke. This latter conflagration was hot - alive - and visibly burning. "Oh," I thought. "He means another fireball." My naive supposition was immediately belied when I incredulously heard the announcer say that another plane had slammed into the heretofore undamaged second tower. I still didn't believe it. Surely another aircraft could not have streaked unopposed into the World Trade Center - the pride of the New York skyline. But then my disbelief turned into, well, more disbelief, as they replayed what my eyes had previously missed: another plane, huge and lumbering in appearance, veering straight into the second tower. The pall of smoke now emanating from the second gash left no further doubt of what had just happened. How can I describe my emotions at that moment? I was at first unable to allow myself to accept the obvious: that this had been a deliberate act. "Wow," the fleeting thought streaked across my mind. "Another plane just crashed into the World Trade Center. What are the chances that such an inconceivable accident could happen twice within the space of 1/2 hour?" This first thought, perhaps because of its mere ridiculousness, was immediately evicted from my mind. "This is real." More rational, yet infinitely more painful thoughts took up permanent residence in my head. "This was a deliberate act." The announcers confirmed my thoughts - their words pounding the truth into my head like so many unseen jackhammers. This was a terrorist attack. We Americans, in our smug sense of security, had been attacked in our beds. We had been caught sleeping, slumbering blissfully, accompanied by false dreams of invulnerability. Those dreams were shattered in a moment.

I watched in horror as the footage continued. A million questions formed in my mind, were unanswered, and ran away - pursued hotly by additional unanswered questions: Where did the planes com from? Why did they fly into the buildings? Were the planes small commuter jobs? Were they larger passenger behemoths? How much damage had been done? Would the buildings collapse? One by one, the queries were answered - though these answers were not fully complete, and are still roiling and heaving as more information becomes available. The first inkling of an answer was provided by the announcers: A plane had apparently been recently hijacked, and there was speculation that a relationship possibly existed. Of all the explanations that could have been provided, this was perhaps the worst. A hijacking meant that the involved planes were commercial - laden with passengers. A hijacking meant that forces unknown had breached airport security and managed to wreak terror on their unsuspecting victims. A hijacking meant that any and all perceptions of airport security had been shattered. I continued to watch as voiceless horror gave way to words. "I don't believe this," I said to thin air. "This is bad. This is really bad." I continued to watch as the minutes passed. Suddenly, I was consumed with an overwhelming desire to talk to someone. Anyone. I rushed into Dad's study and asked, "have you heard?"
"What?" he asked.
"Two planes just crashed into the World Trade Center," I said, almost breathless. "They think it was a terrorist attack." Dad, incredulous, followed me into my room. He sat in silence, as I had done moments before, and watched the two smoldering towers struggling to remain standing even as their innards were hotly being eaten away. My desire to tell someone was not appeased. Perhaps I just needed to give voice to my emotions. Bottling them up would surely cause some type of explosion, and they had to be released. I grabbed my cordless phone and called [Joe], my friend and office-mate. Had he heard? "No", he said. "What happened? I was just about to read the story on the Internet but I haven't gotten to it yet." I told him the awful news as he reacted in shock. "Two planes?" he asked, his own incredulity reflecting mine.
"Two planes," I confirmed. We bounced our conversation back and forth, punctuating it again and again with intense disbelief. Finally, [Joe's] desire for information became overwhelming. He quickly left his desk and the conversation, rushing to one of the many television sets that had been hastily erected within the [building]. I hung up the phone - somewhat relieved of the awful burden that had until now been frothing within my being. I rejoined Dad at the television, continuing to watch as events progressed. Within minutes, that progression became heartstoppingly quick - horror after horror rolling and tumbling over themselves like waves crashing along the beach. Within minutes, the news came that another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. "Dear God," I thought. "It's not just New York anymore."

The awful burden again surged within me as I heard (unfounded) rumors that another plane had crashed on I-95, and that there had been damage to the Washington Mall. "I've got to call Washington," I thought. Acting on that fleeting intensity, I called [Julie] - hoping to hear her words on the other side of the line. Within seconds, her familiar voice brought me some comfort. "I'm okay," she said. "We're not near the Pentagon, and I think the Mall's okay." I was relieved, and talked with [Julie] as we both watched our respective television sets. My particular set was muted, and therefore showing closed captions in lieu of sound. As I watched, I saw the word "collapsing" flash across the screen. For a brief moment, I thought that the words were referring to one of the two World Trade Center towers. "No," I thought. "It couldn't have collapsed. The damage wasn't severe enough." Seconds after those thoughts breached the boundaries of my mind, I looked up and one of the towers was gone. "It's gone!" I said to [Julie] in disbelief. "One of the towers is gone!"
"It's gone?" she asked. "You're kidding!"
"No. It's gone!" I said, now sure.
"I've got to call my mom," [Julie] replied suddenly. I said goodbye and continued my vigil. Dad had now gone - his work duties finally overwhelming his desire to soak up more information. Within minutes, the broadcasters replayed the collapse of the Trade Center tower. For the first time, real fear and profound sadness gripped me like a vice - almost squeezing out tears. I fought them back resolutely, resorting to my habit of pacing the floor whenever I am upset. As time continued on, I called [Joe] yet again, updating him on the attack of the Pentagon. Again, the conversation was short. Both of us craved more information, and we couldn't get it while on the phone. I continued to watch my only line to the calamity progressing so close to my very door. Within moments, another report came in: A plane had crashed in Pittsburgh. No word yet on whether it was related to the preceding events. I thought immediately of [Mary] and her awful death on that flight that went down in Pittsburgh in the 90's. I felt an eerie sense of deja vu, as the impact of the event swept over me. What must these people have been thinking in their final moments? Were they hijacked as well? As time went on, the reality continued to sink in - taking root and giving life to fruit that I had never tasted before: simultaneous fear, anger, vulnerability, and still...disbelief. How could one mortal coil contain such disparate emotions? How could they remain without causing the shell to fly apart - its remnants fluttering silently to the ground? Somehow, they were contained and life limped along.

As I watched, the facts slowly began to emerge: Four flights had been hijacked within a very short span of one another. All were transcontinental in nature, and their respective planes therefore laden with fuel. All were destined for California, 2 originating in Boston, another in Newark. 3 of the planes had hit their targets with deadly accuracy - one slamming into Tower 1 of the World Trade Center, another into Tower 2. The third had winged into the Pentagon, while the fourth (whose target is believed to have been Camp David) crashed in Pittsburgh for an unknown reason.

The worst had happened on American soil, but it wasn't over yet. As I continued to watch, the second tower collapsed - like an accordion - top to bottom. My heart fell to my feet. I felt defeated and powerless. I felt emotions I had never experienced before, and I'm sure that hitherto unknown emotions will surge within me as the days progress.

They caught us today - sleeping in our beds, dreaming blissful dreams. Some have tried to sound the clarion call, but it has gone unheeded. Until today. Today, a nation with very little innocence left to lose has somehow bled more...[Today] we have awakened, and life will never be the same again.

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The purpose of this blog

So what's the purpose of this blog? Long story long:


First: I want to be a writer.
I've had the aspiration for a number of years now, and I'm finally beginning to do something about it. Of course, mere sentience would tell someone that wanting to be a writer and actually being a writer are two completely different things. Will anyone like what I have to say? And even if they do, will they like the way I say it? So even if they do, will they spare any time to read how I've written what I have to say? You get the picture.

Second: I've always wanted to be an Engineer.
Fortunately, unlike the writing aspiration, I've got this second thing nailed: I studied, went to school, graduated, got a job, and am now employed as a Software Development Engineer. Yee Ha. Still, though, the writing bug was always there - buzzing like a little wasp in the back of my head. Every now and again the bug would sting me and I would be spurred into action: first this start, then that stop, then this start again. Alas, all of these attempts were light and non-cohesive - flying apart and fluttering to the ground like so many pieces of sad confetti. So now with one aspiration fulfilled and the other taunting me from its little perch just within my reach, I find myself thinking that in this age of unbounded Internet freedom, perhaps all that these two grand aspirations need is an introduction to one another. Courtship and marriage might then ensue - culminating in the birth of....well....a bouncing baby blog.

'Course, now a-days, one doesn't need a whole lot of Software Engineering learnin' to create a blog. Even better. So yeah, one day I'll write a book. I will. But it might be nice in the interim to test the waters with something smaller - just to see the type of response it generates. If any.

Now, unfortunately, the death of one problem often leads to the birth of another, and I have found that to be just the case in the Grand Blog Endeavor. To the point: what the colorful metaphor do I blog about? Well to answer that question, I have to ask: what do I know about?

Answer #1: I know Software Engineering.
Right. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here.

Answer #2: I know the names of obscure television stars.
Yeah. Better leave that blog to the obscure television stars.

Answers #3: I know myself. I know my friends. I know my life.
Uh huh. Unfortunately, something tells me that no matter how wildly interesting I might find my own existence, precious few people are going to flock to my blog site to hear about what-I-did-last-summer or what-I-ate-last-night. I mean, blogging on such an intensely personal scale seems to me to be nothing more than a worldwide invitation to the dreaded Family Vacation Slideshow. Scrap it.

So what else is there?
Well, there are always my journals. Yeah, okay, I know. Journals are beyond intensely personal. But stick it out with me, here! This is actually going somewhere.

I've kept some flavor of journal for quite a number of years, now, and I presently find myself reasoning (with some admitted desperation) that there must be some blog fodder buried in at least one of them. So I've wracked my brains a little more...and I think I may have finally hit upon an idea.

Of all of the entries in my journals, two often stand out in my mind whenever I allow myself to quickly catalog the writings. Both are personal entries, yes, but both also deal with national or international tragedies. So why did I make these entries in the first place? Well, as I was writing them, I remember thinking that perhaps one day my unborn children would ask me about what it was like to be alive when so-and-so happened. Wouldn't it be a learning experience, I thought, for them to be able to read an entry from a journal written on So-and-So Day - when the generated emotions were still raw and hadn't yet had time to harden and heal? Perhaps so, I reasoned - all the while extrapolating my musings to include the "archaeologist-from-the-future" scenario. In short: if an archaeologist were to dig up written words that described a singular event, what would fascinate him/her the most? Would it be the cold hard this-is-what-happened facts from the reporteratti? Or would it be the expressed joys and fears from an everyday citizen who was there when it all happened? The answer, I surmise, is "both", but balance is not achieved unless one is coupled with the other.

So! This idea has continued to gel (strawberry flavored, I believe), and I've come to a tentative conclusion about what might mold it into an interesting blog. In essence, I'm thinking that I could pick a topic, blog about where-I-was-and-how-I-felt-when-it-happened, post, and wait for commentary. That was my first thought, anyway. Soon after I had it, though, second thought wandered in without knocking and quickly proceeded to rearrange everything. How? Well, I realized that commentary about my posts would not be enough. What would round out the blog, I figured, would be comments from readers about their own personal experiences. In other words, when so-and-so happened, where were they? What were their first thoughts and emotions? How did a reader's initial thoughts change once they’d had time to think about things a little after the fact? How do we all differ from one another? And how are we all the same?

Does that make sense? I hope so, and I'd be honored to receive commentary from those of you who wish to offer your thoughts on the topics that you find here. Before we launch, however, I suppose there must always be the obligatory Setting Forth of the Ground Rules. So, uh, here they are (subject to change without notice, of course. What fun are Ground Rules otherwise?)

Ground Rules

1. All comments will be moderated to ensure that they are appropriate for this site. No base profanity or obscene content will be allowed.
2. Please keep comments on topic. Rambling is not a bad thing - just so long as it is at least loosely connected to the general theme.
3. Though I do have strong political opinions (as do most folks, now a-days), this is not a political site! Please keep commentary as free of political charge as you can (I know that sometimes politics might have to come into play to provide context, but screeds will not be posted).
4. No personal insults towards other commentators will be allowed. Disagreements are fine, but name-calling and slander will not be permitted.
5. Have Fun!

First topic coming tomorrow. It's bedtime, and Midnight's Oil is nearly spent.