More. There's always more to say.
Went out last night. Got drunk. Felt great, felt guilty. We were actually sitting at a bar on 22nd St and the West Side Highway, relief workers flowing in both directions. Bars on 10th Ave have carts in front giving hotdogs to workers. We sat and drank and talked, argued about war, America, children, selfishness, love. It was wonderful and painful.
We went to another bar, a big group. It was an average New York bar hopping night, giant group of almost all Oxygen folks in a cramped courtyard in Chelsea. Food, beer, tequila shots. But it wasn't average. There was seriousness in the air. Normally everyone talks about work. Conversations here were about America's place in the world, about life, death, love, loss. About walking to South America. Because we're alive, and we can.
We have to go on, we have to live and celebrate life. But we feel guilty. We feel like we should be helping. But there are enough people helping, they're trained, and they had the foresight to care before now. I've been kicked in the ass, along with many others, to have skills needed in times like this, but in a way it's too late. Too late for this time, but not for the next time.
I overslept this morning, had a meeting about the Oxygen Schedule website. I'll do my job, write my test plan. But I'm not sure how much I'll care. Little is my guess.
In the midst of all of this, life. Relationships, friends, bars, restaurants. It's weird, and I'm not sure how it makes me feel. I'm trying to decide if we should arrange a volleyball game this weekend. We need to be happy and be with our friends. But there's a part of me that can't quite muster up the energy, or something, to send out that email.
Chelsea market is different. They draped huge red white and blue tapestries over the archway downstairs. There's a donation center on the west side of the building. Rescue workers are coming here for food, to rest. I walked through their midst on the way to the bar last night. I felt like an asshole. I couldn't communicate with my eyes, I look at people and try to smile. Try to tell them with a look that I understand (I don't) or that I'm trying, trying to deal with it too, and that I wish there was more I could do. That I'm not going to a bar to forget, but to remember. But I end up met with a look that I can't return. I look at my feet.
I'm thankful for my friends, and that this has brought us all together. I hope that matters.
