I’m still not prepared even now when images from that September morning run on t.v. (or, as happened over the weekend, when M. and I went to see Jindabyne, as a preview for United 93, and the Vanity Fair article isn’t nearly as inspirational as that moment when I saw the fighters overhead as I made my way uptown, perhaps because now I know that they were pretty nearly as confused by the events unfolding as I was. The books and movies and songs have been increasing lately, and I’d like to find some way of engaging with it myself, but haven’t reached that point of Wordsworthian “recollection in tranquillity” to allow it, if that isn’t too old fashioned or even possible. Art may indeed have power to transform and even to help heal trauma, so maybe I’m holding on too tightly to that day and the what it changed in me. Maybe delving into these materials is the right thing to do. Certainly the on-line article is an opportunity, with every posted snippet of communication posted as an audio link, but not one I can bring myself to take advantage of. When we saw those two minutes of dramatization, neither of us could entirely contain ourselves, even though, having seen the lobby posters, we were, in part, prepared for the fact that there would be a preview. I guess, like in that Gothamist report, where someone in the audience calls out hopefully in the opening moments of the coming attractions, we might have still hoped for it to be a different trailer, but that was just wishful thinking. Needless to say, I suppose, is that we won’t go see United 93 or the Oliver Stone movie.