Rumors of other bombings, none confirmed, scurrying around me. I don't want to know. It will swallow me if I think about it. Eat me alive. Go. Just keep going.

Simply walking, under the hot sun, air full with the smell of concrete and burn, a thick plume still arching over Brooklyn, I eventually turned left to make it to a street that looked like it went all the way through downtown to Park Slope and beyond. I had only ever taken the subway this far, so I was guessing. It looked right. And, as long as I kept going, I knew I would eventually find my way home.

Thoughts of my mother, my friends began creeping in as I walked through Cobble Hill.

A car was playing a radio, volume up, all its doors open. I stopped to listen along with about a dozen or so others. Just the facts. We have a new skyline. Thousands feared dead. 4 planes. Pentagon. Pennsylvania. No word on a response.

Then "in an attempt to return to some normalcy" the traffic report. Bridges and tunnels closed inbound. Trains suspended, but for some in the outer boroughs, and that only perhaps because of power outages. Busses suspended. But, perhaps only in Manhattan. Manhattan closed south of Canal. All airports closed.

I started walking again.

Then I noticed I was thirsty and needed to let people know I had survived. Physically.

I stopped in a deli and bought a gatoraide, and saw a dark skinned, dark haired man behind the counter. In spite of myself, it flashed I should do something...it could be...I pushed this too heavy thought away. He looked slightly frightened as he gave me my change. With the change I called Sofi. Told her I was alive, and asked her to call my mother, giving her the number. I then kept going.

After crossing a canal separating Red Hook from Park Slope, I rounded a corner, and there were several men with a forklift, and a pallet of water.

"Here," one man said, "here's some more water."

I accepted with thanks, and kept going.

Finding third avenue, I started south to 61st. In front of me, behind me were the remnants of the exodus, a sporadic stream of men and women trudging along, all silent. But for the sirens. Still everywhere. The sun was so hot. I felt it burning my face, my eyes itching from the dust, and the ball of tightness in my cheeks ached.

But, as I walked, I kept Beethoven there. Reminding myself there is still beauty, and as long as I remember that, it can never be taken from me. I won't let them win. They will not beat me. I will not permit that. It can not happen. Then an offhand comment that Jemila, my friend from last night, made, quoting Booker T. Washington: "I will let no man bring me so low as to make me hate him." She used it - I can't even remember in reference to what, but as nothing compared with now. And, I will take that mind - I won't, I can't let them steal from me what is best. I will never allow that. For I would be worse than they, as I know better, and yet would have turned away from that.

No. He cannot win.

And, so I kept going passing cop cars blocking streets and police watching, bearing shotguns around a federal prison, the lines of traffic waiting to head onto the BQE, trying to get anywhere but here.

A young hip-hop kid walks towards me, someone I would never have spoken to, nor would he have ever spoken to me on a normal day.

"Manhattan?"

Yes.

"Man, it's fucked up. Hits in LA. A plane in Chicago with bombs at the airport."

I just shake my head. I mean, really, what in the hell can I say? What words can convey this. I feel impotent.

"Man." He just shakes his head. Holds his hand up.

We high five. Walk away. It's just different now.

Snippets of conversations I passed by:

"They finally brought it over here"

"fuckers"

"blow the fuck out of them"

"bomb them back to the stone age"

This is still too enormous for me to think about. I simply can't think about it. Not now. I wish not ever, but know, eventually, I must. I use those magnificent phrases from the 4th movement of the fifth to keep me going, 20 more blocks, 10, 5, 1. I'm home. I go into my building, and, out of habit, thoughtlessly, I check for my mail, what bills I might get, advertisements. Nothing. Of course, the post office would have shut down.

To my apartment where my two cats were. They purred and meowed greeting me.

I envy them right then. But, I must keep going. If I slow down, my thoughts might catch up with me.

I have seen no footage, no image yet, though my shoes, my shirt, hair, fingers are dusted with what was, until three hours before, the twin-towers.

Phone calls. I can't reach my mother, but leave a message. My sister calls, no, nothing in Chicago. Nothing in LA. A flurry of emails. My friends from Mexico offering me a place to stay if I wish to leave. More messages saying "I've been trying to reach you. All the circuits are busy."

I call Sofi for the latest news. Only New York and The Pentagon were hit. One plane went down in Pennsylvania. No word yet otherwise. Bush to address the nation at 9. I want to see it, and having no television, I invite myself over.

"Sure, whenever...."

But, first, I answer more emails. I scour the net for news. And those damned sirens. Still those damned sirens. Is this some new disaster? or still the one I escaped? I can't tell. I have no way of telling. The plume still arches over Brooklyn. It smells of soot, of burn and concrete. I read all I can, still trying not to think, not really, not deeply, just trying to...I don't even know...read and not think, fill myself, staunch the flow of thoughts too heavy for me. I cannot even think of the kindness of strangers, for I weep when I do, more than for the dead, for that is simply too big an emotion for this one small body, this one lone mind.

I still have to keep going. I am hungry. Tired. Sunburnt. And, straining under the weight of the thoughts that fill the air around me.

Then I realize I'm still covered in dust. My hair is stiff with it, eyes caked. I shower, and this gives me a little too much time to think, and I need to leave, keep going, never stop, never stop, not until I fall asleep, and after I dress, I walk to Bay Ridge, just a few minutes walk away to buy some groceries. My usual, vegetables, tofu. But, somehow, I can't make up my mind about anything. Which tomatoes? I loose track of where I am. I keep having moments of surprise at finding myself in a corner grocery, shopping. Shopping? What am I doing shopping? Yes, to keep going. Not allow myself too long a time to think. Still, it takes me so much time just to select a few items, and I am not even sure if that is what I want or need, but I also know it really doesn't matter.

Then, I notice the sounds of a news cast, and then the television up above.

I see for the first time what it was I had just walked away from. I am numbed by it. The plane striking. The flames I saw only a few hours ago. The dust I had walked through. The absence. I don't know how long I stared at the TV. But, I couldn't watch any more. I paid, and then, as I walked down the avenue, remembered I forgot cat food. I had to get cat food. I crisscrossed the street going into first one then another grocery. Friskies, not Hills. But, that matters nothing. Nothing. Less than nothing.

I passed a street packed with Fire engines. From New Jersey. Connecticut. Long Island. The police station a block away had cars two deep parked around it. I remembered hearing before, I think at the car in Cobble Hill, that all retired officers and firefighters had to report back to duty. I made it back home with the images the rest of the world - those who were not there, the voyeurs - in my head for the first time.

The plume of smoke still arched across Brooklyn. The smell of concrete and burn. Sirens still wailed. I hate them now, the sirens. Hate them.

My super, a big strong man from the Dominican Republic, sat on the stair well. His eyes were red, held a ball of tissue in his hands. Just shook his head. "I laid pipe in there. The columns were thick. Thick as big as this." He moves his hands around indicating the whole stairwell, and just shakes his head. The door slams behind me and we both jump. I hate loud noises now.

At home, I had to eat. I was nauseated, but knew I had to do something.

After a quick sandwich, I put in Beethoven, this time the 4th movement of his 9th symphony, what I think is the most magnificent piece of music ever written. I cannot let them win. They will never take this beauty from me. I let the music flow over me. It drowned out the sirens, masked the stench, covered my eyes to the dust that I somehow cannot, even now, wipe from my shoes.

Before I left for Sofi and Krassi's house, I took solace, if that is even the right word, from reading the words of other countries, from Russia, England, France, Italy, Germany, Japan, all countries that were once our enemies. This seemed odd to me at the time - that I felt better about that than anything I had yet heard today, but for the calls and emails from friends and family.

On my trip to Sofi and Krassi's, I had to pick a new book to read. The next one in line to read was "War and Peace." The irony was too clumsy for me. Instead, I selected "Candide." Ironic, yes, but at least subtly. I read it on the subway to their house, and as I read a description of Voltaire, I smiled. Really smiled for the first time this day as his philosophy of Deistic humanism was sketched out for me and how he wanted to be the one that undid the work of twelve...I had wanted to do this when I was younger.

I did not feel bad for smiling, for forgetting for a few moments what had just happened. Because, I can't let them win, and I will not give away what I hold within me, no matter how frail or trivial it may seem. Others may give them their minds, their emotions if they choose, but I shall not.

I watched President Bush's address, arriving just as it began. No real comfort. Just enough to make it through this night. Nothing stupid has been done. Some loose, aimless fears were calmed. For now. Flipping through channels. More of the same. Dead bodies. Rescues. Cell phones. Repeated images of piloted missiles and buildings crumbling. Death, and more death, and still more

I had to leave. Still those god damned sirens. And that smell of burn and concrete.

At home, more emails. Phone calls.

Eventually, I was too tired to stay awake.

I slept.

And today is such a fine, beautiful September day, like yesterday. But, this morning, I smell concrete and burn, and the sound of jet fighters fills the air.

My friend Maureen wrote me last night: "Feel blessed to be alive!"

I'm trying. Trying like hell right now.