Every year, this day sneaks up on me, like a wedding or Christmas. That underlying stress I can't put my finger on until it arrives and I'm forced to either feel or act like nothing happened. I woke up. I lived.
This anonymous little store will endure as the truest testament of what was there and all that was lost. It stands as the purest expression of memory possible: A memory encased in continuing function at the service of architecture and its modern demands.
A nation's politicians and foreign policy do not define its people; ordinary citizens reacting extraordinarily define its people. My neighbors, friends and thousands of other people like them make America strong, rich and resilient.
Over the past seven years, I've been allowed to observe and document the process of conceiving, curating, building, and now opening to the public the National 9/11 Memorial Museum. My images and recordings span seven remarkable years.
Because of the hell into which he was thrown with thousands, Flynn conjures moments reminiscent of Dante's Inferno. There are even echoes in his lines of T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land. And what could be more understandable?
I love psychics -- but you knew that. I have been going to them for years. I don't live my life by what they tell me -- maybe I should -- but I really enjoy listening to what they have to say. I've been to quite a few over the years.
The "new" (to me) Newseum offers an amazing array of displays and information in its airy galleries packed with information on America's history, geography, politics, international relations, and media-related technological advances.
All I'm asking, New Yorkers, is that you either honestly document the city, including the trash bags that get buried for months under the snow when the blizzard hits, or quit clogging up my feed with propaganda.