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2002-04-01

Herbert Marcuse
B. 7.19.1898 Berlin / D. 7.29.1979 Starnberg, Germany
Stroke

I am sitting here on the furthest verge of a Palestinian state-related panic attack, completing the homework I assigned myself last night when I told my friend Jessica, over the phone, that shortly I�d be �doing an entry� about the scene I nearly made in her company upon September 11th, on the F train, between the Smith and 9th Street and Fourth Avenue stations. She and her vanishing boyfriend and I were riding back from our elevated platform group-gape�ghastly with videographers�at the still-smoking remains of Lower Manhattan. Over the atmosphere of the packed subway car as it pulled away. . .away homeward. . .speechless gravity fell like an immobilizing shroud, under which most everyone peeked at everyone else�s behavior for cracks, messages, clues; for cues to that evening�s and the future�s anecdotes; for comfort�for monkeys in a barrel, with chattering teeth and dusty fur, required (by whom�by what keeper? CBS?) to be so erect, so galvanized by comprehension, all the comfort permitted.
Pltptltpltptlp.
And I observed the young hispanic man standing next to me make his tongue make quick wet sex sounds while he flicked it in and out of his pretty girlfriend�s ear.
Pltptltpltptlp.
(Jessica claims she didn�t see this but who knows what she herself was doing�I don�t recall.) At any rate, the thought flashed through my mind that I should object. That I should speak to him, sharply, about this being his country too�that I should assume the role assigned me by my Constitution and my Bachelor�s Degree and make, if not war, then at least an appropriately wide path for war through the crowd. And that I did not, and why, is something I�ve intended to work out in an entry ever since.
Pltptltpltptlp.
Not too shy; not too sane; not too afraid of confrontation�not at all�confident, in fact (I remember scanning heads) that I could enlist enough sympathies to make for a satisfying and most cathartic ruckus�yet I resisted. Let it pass. In his place, I�d realized�in his shoes, with a pang�in his tongue, in his body�in his arms
Victory.

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