Sometime during the beginning of last week, the lights on my floor at work flickered and went out. Immediately, all conversation stopped and everyone froze. This little nugget of weirdness was followed by nervous laughter, but the moment was loaded. Nobody talked about it later either, but everyone was thinking the same thing. Those by the windows betrayed these thoughts by glancing out towards the Sears Tower--peering up to glimpse the top.

Mid week, around 11:30, thousands of people were seen pouring out of this same building. From my floor, they looked like so many ants swarming around the Tower and down the sidewalks towards various train and "L" stations in thinning lines. Knowing nothing at the time about the rumor they heard about a plane leaving Milwaukee losing radio contact and heading for Chicago, what were we supposed to do? Join them? Stay put? The TVs that used to broadcast the traditional company slide shows have been tuned to CNN since the 11th and there was nothing there to indicate new events occurring in Chicago.

By the end of the week, I overheard the head of corporate security saying, "It's outside the building and while I think it's a rumor, you'd better go check it out,"  to some burly guy in a bullet proof jacket.

The last fourteen days leave me questioning not only my mode of daily transportation, ("L"s are more crowded, but trains are easier to get out of quickly should someone release nerve gas) but my choice footwear (can't run in clogs, must wear sneakers to work in case there is an explosion or fire and I need to get away quickly). Every decision I make seems significant. Should I go downstairs and get bagel . . . NOW? If I use the restrooms on the west side of the building to take a pee, will this be crucial mistake resulting in my imminent . . . DEATH?  

And Friday night? I went shopping at midnight for bottled water, canned goods, and batteries. I filled my gas tank and took out some extra cash from the ATM. You know. Just in case.

Fuck.

To top it all off, I'm still struggling with writing. I was on a hiatus of sorts before the 11th, and now while I'm ready to return, to tell you everything that happened with Alachua, my father, Hula's job search, my new dog, I just can't. I can't find my voice. 

Each night I sit down, vowing to work up something, but end up unable to get the words moving again. I've never had writer's block like this before and it's worse than any kind of physical constipation I've ever experienced. It's like I've got this giant pinecone stuck in there somewhere and nothing is  moving. Everything's just backing up and backing up until I feel I might . . . not explode, but implode. Implode into a small dark dense mass, a turd made of star matter.

I work in the shadow of Sears Tower. It's right across the street and the proximity of this building to my desk has had an impact upon me. Don't get me wrong, the very nearness of the Sears Tower has affected me from the beginning of my tenure at my current place of employment--I have spent many a happy hour getting just the slightest bit tanked over at Dos Hermanos. It's just that now, I'll never have a margarita there again. And now, I can't think about anything else but that building and it's status as a target.

Okay. And the dreams. I think about my dreams too. For six nights in a row, they all have to do with planes dropping what appear to be tiny Challenger-like explosions from their vapor trails. Some of the planes don't look normal, they are like tubes with sticks coming out of them, but their payload is identical. A strange white-metal snow that we know will kill us. While the dreams start differently, they always end up the same--scurrying around closing windows to delay the inevitable reaction to the death-snow. Every single time the dream replays itself, I ask myself why I am prolonging the suffering a few hours. Why not just go outside and get it over with now? 

I close the windows regardless.

Oh oh. Alright. I'm also thinking I've got Lou Gehrig's disease. Okay? Happy? Some things never change.