Sometimes life is funny.
One moment, you’re sitting there, not updating your blog for several weeks. The next, you’re enjoying a Monday evening cocktail out of a pint glass commemorating the terrorist attack you were at last week.
Yes, for those of you who didn’t already hear me not shutting the fuck up about it last week, I was present for what I’m told is the worst attack on American soil since 9/11. One doesn’t generally expect to be about six beers deep during the worst attack on American soil since 9/11, but then again, one doesn’t really expect it to happen at all. For me, I also didn’t expect to be about a block away from the second explosion.
I thought for a while last week about writing something on it. Actually, I did write something on it. But I was a little buzzed at the time (lay off, it’s been a long week), and it was one of those catharsis drafts that I don’t think I want to read back after the fact, so I’ve no idea if it was any good (probably not).
I didn’t really have any feelings about it until around the middle of the night on Wednesday, when I woke up to a loud truck and thought a bomb was going off. That jarring little wake-up and the endless news coverage felt more real than being at the actual attack. I don’t know why I don’t have a lot of feelings about it, or why I felt calmer on the day than I have at every job interview and date I’ve ever been on.
I don’t really know why, but I didn’t want Dzhokhar Tsarnaev to die this past Friday. Not because I wanted by-the-book justice, and only partially because I hope for answers. Shit, I could probably guess the answers. I think I just didn’t want anybody else to get hurt. I’ve talked to people who were miles and miles away from those pressure cooker bombs that seemed angrier about it than I feel even now. Maybe those big feelings don’t come quite as easily when you’re still shouldering the “could’ve been me” thoughts. Maybe it’s just brain chemicals protecting me from overthinking. If that’s the case, those chemicals picked a strange time to kick in, cause I’ve overthought everything there is since I started eating solid foods.
I don’t think it’s really any of those things, though. I think, when you’re near a big, heavy, violent thing that doesn’t make sense, you turn it into a dream so that the harder you try to reimagine it, the farther away it gets.
My best to those a little closer to the bombs and those affected in the aftermath who don’t have the luxury of letting it go like a bad dream. Donate here if that’s your thing. No pressure but, in the grand New England tradition of personal guilt, if you don’t, you should feel like a little bit of an asshole.