11.09.2002 | 6:27 p.m.
you've got to cry without weeping, talk without speaking, scream without raising your voice..

I'm going to try hard as possible to not turn this into a haven of meaningless schmaltz. Tragedy isn't about cheap sentiment and afternoon T.V movies. True emotion, the kind that seizes the recceses of our being, ventures further than sodden handkerchiefs. You are not honouring people by doing this. You are belittling the insanity and the grief; you are CASHING in on the insanity and the grief. I am not American. I don't profess to understand what the nation has gone through. But it seems to me that shock therapy is being employed to brainwash people into feeling a certain way. The situation is being oversimplified. Good versus Evil. Us versus Them. It is not that black and white. In a few months, a comfortable apathy will slowly seep into us. When we see the planes crashing into the towers, we won't be crushed by the impact. When we see the flames furiously hunting, we won't be incinerated. When we hear the screams, we won't feel our mouths going dry. We'll change the channel and watch re-runs of Ally McBeal. Until Hollywood reminds us. Don't let the next generation believe that everyone who died that day looked like Julia Roberts and fell in love as orchestras swelled in the background and everything around them - literally - collapsed. For God's sake, don't give Celine Dion another opportunity to win a Grammy.

Last year, on the 12th of September, as I stood on the bank of the Thames with people I'd known for under three weeks, I shared time more precious and intimate than I ever had before. We cried silently because we didn't comprehend. We didn't believe. We couldn't believe. We looked vacantly at the planes disappearing into the crimson sunset pretending we weren't thinking the thoughts we were. As Monica read a letter to Bruce - someone none of her friends knew - each one of us ached for him. She gingerly put it into a bottle and threw it into the river and watched as it floated away,until we couldn't see it anymore. All that time Matt was dead. His thoughts, his memories, his loves, his hates - every single part of his consciouness had been reduced to a statistic. I didn't even know until November. A cold November morning in the Millichip lab. 3 unread messages. Subject: "Matt died in the Pentagon on September 11th". Getting through Calculus that morning was a nightmare. When I went home in December,I re-read ICQ conversations frantically hoping that that would undo everything. I couldn't delete him from my AIM list. He's still there. I keep hoping that ImMATTure will IM me. We'll talk about The Doors and oral sex under the influence of altoids and elephant jizz and why we were both atheists and he'll still say "Bye,little goose".

But it won't happen. He's gone.

This is for you, Matty. You shouldn't have died. You deserved a longer life. You were funny and insightful and talented and sweet and incredibly intelligent. I don't think any of us can listen to DMB without thinking of you. We miss you. Your amorphous friends, the ones who knocked on contact lists and took the shape of typed words, miss you more than you would ever imagine. More than even we would ever imagine. You told me once, in jest, that you were afraid of dying a virgin. At least that didn't happen,huh? Always look on the bright side of death.

Rest in Peace, Matthew Flocco.

29/11/1979 - 11/9/2001

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