For a short time my astonishment about September 11 diluted my compassion. And I guess I wasn’t alone in my astonishment in those first few hours, days and months following the killing of so many people in a country where no one is supposed to die.
It was a tiny rose the colour of musk sticks and fairy floss and just blown, on the climber that never flowered after that one winter when we cut it right back.
Zoë Krukpa Cleaning my bedroom window, Canberra, 1982 My ear was burning in the sun, and my nose, which I had just recently pierced with the aid of a needle sterilized with a match and a handy bit of raw potato, was throbbing softly. The window rag smelled of this new stuff, eucalyptus oil, which I wanted to drown the world in I loved it so much, and my music box was precariously perched on a stool.
Zoë Krupka Bell Street, Coburg, Melbourne, 2007 And then everything I’d ever wanted to say about September 11, 2001 had been said. Or crooned really.