September 11 Books

world trade towers allwhowanderphoto

This is an eclectic mix of 9/11 themed books from 2001 to 2012.

If you have suggestions for the list, please leave them in the comments.  Thanks!

Burnt Shadows - Kamila Shamsie
Shamsie’s complex fifth novel, spanning the years between August 1945 and September 2001, is a story of two inextricably connected and politically impacted families. Berliner Konrad Weiss and Hiroko Tanaka, his translator, meet in Nagasaki and plan to marry. But after he is incinerated by the bomb and she is left permanently scarred, Hiroko journeys to Delhi, home of Konrad’s half-sister, Elizabeth Burton, and her British husband, James. Hiroko bonds with James’ assistant, Sajjad. With Partition between India and Pakistan looming, the Burtons return to England, where their son Henry is in boarding school. Hiroko and Sajjad marry, but they’re not allowed back into India, since Sajjad is a Muslim who “chose to leave.” Shamsie takes up their story 35 years later in Karachi, where they have one son, Raza, after bomb-related miscarriages. Henry appears, searching for his past, and offers to assist with Raza’s education; by 2001, they’re working together for the CIA in the U.S. Shamsie offers a moving look at the “complicated shared history” of these two families, an increasingly common facet of globalization. --Deborah Donovan

A Gate at the Stairs - Lorrie Moore
Twenty-year-old Tassie Keltjin, the daughter of a gentleman farmer, has come to a university town as a student. When she takes a job as a part-time nanny for a mysterious and glamorous family, she finds herself drawn deeper into their world and forever changed. Told through the eyes of this memorable narrator, A Gate at the Stairs is a piercing novel of race, class, love, and war in America.

Home Boy - H. M. Naqvi
They are renaissance men. They are bons vivants. They are three young Pakistani men in New York City at the turn of the millennium: AC, a gangsta-rap-spouting academic; Jimbo, a hulking Pushtun DJ from the streets of Jersey City; and Chuck, a wideeyed kid, fresh off the boat from the homeland, just trying to get by. Things start coming together for Chuck when he unexpectedly secures a Wall Street gig and begins rolling with socialites and scenesters flanked by his pals, who routinely bring down the house at hush-hush downtown haunts. In a city where origins matter less than the talent for self-invention, the three Metrostanis have the guts to claim the place as their own.
But when they embark on a road trip to the hinterland weeks after 9/11 in search of the Shaman, a Gatsbyesque compatriot who seemingly disappears into thin air, things go horribly wrong. Suddenly, they find themselves in a changed, charged America.


The Garden of the Last Days - Andre Dubus III
One early September night in Florida, a stripper brings her daughter to work. April's usual babysitter is in the hospital, so she decides it's best to have her three-year-old daughter close by, watching children's videos in the office, while she works. Except that April works at the Puma Club for Men. And tonight she has an unusual client, a foreigner both remote and too personal, and free with his money. Lots of it, all cash. His name is Bassam. Meanwhile, another man, AJ, has been thrown out of the club for holding hands with his favorite stripper, and he's drunk and angry and lonely.

Saturday - Ian McEwan
In his triumphant new novel, Ian McEwan, the bestselling author of Atonement, follows an ordinary man through a Saturday whose high promise gradually turns nightmarish. Henry Perowne–a neurosurgeon, urbane, privileged, deeply in love with his wife and grown-up children–plans to play a game of squash, visit his elderly mother, and cook dinner for his family. But after a minor traffic accident leads to an unsettling confrontation, Perowne must set aside his plans and summon a strength greater than he knew he had in order to preserve the life that is dear to him.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist - Mohsin Hamid
 'Excuse me, sir, but may I be of assistance? Ah, I see I have alarmed you. Do not be frightened by my beard. I am a lover of America...' So speaks the mysterious stranger at a Lahore cafe as dusk settles. Invited to join him for tea, you learn his name and what led this speaker of immaculate English to seek you out. For he is more worldy than you might expect; better travelled and better educated. He knows the West better than you do. And as he tells you his story, of how he embraced the Western dream - and a Western woman - and how both betrayed him, so the night darkens.

The O Mission Repo - Travis Macdonald & JenMarie Davis
Treating each physical page of the original report directly, Mr. Macdonald takes his readers on an operatic journey through the shifting fields of language that have arisen in the post-9/11 world. A resident of Brooklyn, NY at the time of the attacks, the "author" modifies each line of text with the alternating tenderness and rage of one who has experienced the uncertainties of this changed world firsthand. Indeed, the agency of this change is evident throughout the text, from the first black, redacted bars to the last faded musical staffs, Mr. Macdonald generates an entirely new narrative while maintaining an apparition of the report's prior contents. "The O Mission Repo" is published by Fact-Simile Editions, a boutique press in Santa Fe, NM specializing in literature that pushes the boundaries of genre and traditional form.

Poetry after 9/11: An Anthology of New York Poets - Dennis Loy Johnson & Valerie Merians
This 10th anniversary edition of the popular anthology contains poems by forty-five of the most important poets of the day, as well as some of the literary world’s most dynamic young voices, all writing in New York City in the year immediately following the World Trade Center attacks. Featuring poems by Pulitzer Prize winner Stephen Dunn; Best American Poetry series editor David Lehman; National Book Award winner and New York State Poet Jean Valentine; the first ever Nuyorican Slam-Poetry champ; poets laureate of Brooklyn and Queens; and a poem and introduction by National Book Award finalist Alicia Ostriker.

The 9/11 Report: A Graphic Adaptation - Sid Jacobson & Ernie Colon
On December 5, 2005, the 9/11 Commission issued its final report card on the government's fulfillment of the recommendations issued in July 2004: one A, twelve Bs, nine Cs, twelve Ds, three Fs, and four incompletes. Here is stunning evidence that Sid Jacobson and Ernie Colón, with more than sixty years of experience in the comic-book industry between them, were right: far, far too few Americans have read, grasped, and demanded action on the Commission's investigation into the events of that tragic day and the lessons America must learn. Using every skill and storytelling method Jacobson and Colón have learned over the decades, they have produced the most accessible version of the 9/11 Report. Jacobson's text frequently follows word for word the original report, faithfully captures its investigative thoroughness, and covers its entire scope, even including the Commission's final report card. Colón's stunning artwork powerfully conveys the facts, insights, and urgency of the original. Published on the fifth anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the United States, an event that has left no aspect of American foreign or domestic policy untouched, The 9/11 Report puts at every American's fingertips the most defining event of the century.

The Day Our World Changed: Children's Art of 9/11 - Robin F. Goodman & Andrea Henderson Fahnestock
Robin F. Goodman, a well-known child mental health expert, discusses the effects of the tragedy on children and their artistic responses to it. The book will feature personal essays by prominent New York artists, writers, historians, and civic and religious leaders; the children's commentary about their art and experiences is also included. The Day Our World Changed provides insight into what some of our nation's youngest citizens saw on that historic day and how they foresee the future of their city, their nation, and the global community at large.

A Place of Remembrance: Official Book of the September 11 Memorial - Lynn Rasic & Michael R. Bloomberg
On September 11, 2011, the world will be watching as the National September 11 Memorial opens on the site of the World Trade Center. With photographs and architectural plans never before published, paired with comments in the very voices of those who witnessed the event, those who struggled in its shadow for days and months after, and those who have dedicated the years since to rebuilding a place of hope and meditation at Ground Zero, this book will stand apart from all the rest on the tenth anniversary of that world-changing event. Heavily illustrated and elegantly designed, the book recalls the excitement and symbolism of the Twin Towers, the horror and chaos of the attack of 9/11, the fierce devotion and exhaustion as rescue of living victims became recovery of remains. But it also carries on from that date in history to tell the inside story of the long, complex, and sometimes contentious efforts to turn eight acres of Downtown Manhattan into a lasting memorial to those lost in New York, Pennsylvania, and at the Pentagon. A solemn reminder, a historic keepsake, and a fascinating read, this is the official book published by and about the National September 11 Memorial, created by those who have been working for years to honor those who died that day. A special fold-out lists all the names of the victims, making the book itself an enduring memorial to those who died on September 11.

Poem Therapy at 7:42 P. M. 10 September 2012: Full Flight - Bob Hicok

 

 
I'm in a plane that will not be flown into a building.
It's a SAAB 340, seats 40, has two engines with propellers
is why I think of beanies, those hats that would spin
a young head into the clouds. The plane is red and loud
inside like it must be loud in the heart, red like fire
and fire engines and the woman two seats up and to the right
resembles one of the widows I saw on TV after the Towers
came down. It's her hair that I recognize, the fecundity of it
and the color and its obedience to an ideal, the shape
it was asked several hours ago to hold and has held, a kind
of wave that begins at the forehead and repeats with slight
variations all the way to the tips, as if she were water
and a pebble had been continuously dropped into the mouth
of her existence. We are eighteen thousand feet over America.
People are typing at their laps, blowing across the fog of coffee,
sleeping with their heads on the windows, on the pattern
of green fields and brown fields, streams and gas stations
and swimming pools, blue dots of aquamarine that suggest
we've domesticated the mirage. We had to kill someone,
I believe, when the metal bones burned and the top
fell through the bottom and a cloud made of dust and memos
and skin muscled across Manhattan. I remember feeling
I could finally touch a rifle, that some murders
are an illumination of ethics, that they act as a word,
a motion the brain requires for which there is
no syllable, no breath. The moment the planes had stopped,
when we were afraid of the sky, there was a pause
when we could have been perfectly American,
could have spent infinity dollars and thrown a million
bodies at finding the few, lasering our revenge
into a kind of love, the blood-hunger kept exact
and more convincing for its precision, an expression
of our belief that proximity is never the measure of guilt.
We've lived in the sky again for some years and today
on my lap these pictures from Iraq, naked bodies
stacked into a pyramid of ha-ha and the articles
about broomsticks up the ass and the limbs of children
turned into stubble, we are punch-drunk and getting even
with the sand, with the map, with oil, with ourselves
I think listening to the guys behind me. There's a problem
in Alpena with an inventory control system, some switches
are being counted twice, switches for what I don't know—
switches of humor, of faith—but the men are musical
in their jargon, both likely born in New Delhi
and probably Americans now, which is what the flesh
of this country has been, a grafted pulse, an inventory
of the world, and just as the idea of embrace
moves chemically into my blood, and I'm warmed
as if I've just taken a drink, a voice announces
we've begun our descent, and then I sense the falling.
---
Yes, I remember being afraid of the sky. I remember watching the men and women falling out of the sky, and hoping for a miracle rescue.

Yes, I remember my first thoughts as the Towers fell: the Goths and the Visigoths.

Yes, and also my second and third and fourth thoughts, every one of them bloody and bent on retribution.

Yes, I remember the blood-hunger well.

And now, the architect of that day is no more. War is still here, but its end is in sight. Still I feel a tremor as the ground gives way.

How to Write a Personal Ad Poem

Instructions:
I.                    Choose a specific subject (Carrie), place (Walgreens on 28th), time (Friday night), activity (operated that Redbox).
II.                  Describe the subject’s attributes, both concrete (ashen face and hair of flax), and abstract (filled to the heart with stars).
III.                Provide insight into the speaker, (I venerate the old).
IV.                Include a specific request, (Magician seeking magician’s assistant).
V.                  Make authentic choices with subject, setting, images, voice, tone, sensory detail, word choice, concrete and abstract detail.
Examples:
Saw You There
Ander Monson
"Carrie says I should make my connections into a poem." —Dennis Etzel Jr.

Sawed you there, through you there, girl whom I name
Carrie, shine of sun on bonnet-handle at that Walgreens
on 28th. A Friday night. It looked like you came straight
from fighting something that looked like lightning.

You were all scorched up. Tired look but with a residue
of glow, not in the family way, as they used to say,
and as I still do, since I venerate the old, but filled
to the heart with stars. Looking light years away, the way

you operated that Redbox: how can a girl seem so far
from Earth while at a Redbox? I was the girl in the super-
looking supermarket hat, with ashen face and hair of flax,
heart of gold and such. You didn't see me staring, not seeing

much of anything. Magician seeking magician's assistant,
my craigslist ad would say: I will saw through you any day.

Craigslist personal ad:
I, was wearing purple polka-dotted crotchless panties, yellow fuzzy tap dancing shoes and rainbow knee-high socks with swirly peace signs. On my tits, I had disco pasties. I have sicc multi-colored dreads.

You, had a green goatee, and no pants. A cow patterned blazer, No shirt. Sicc tatts.

I saw you hula'n on the multi-colored flying dragon art-car as I was riding my TIGHT cruzer thru da sicc playa dust.

We made eye-contact and never saw each again! Hope the universe brings us together. Namaste.

P.s. my name is Raven.

p.p.s we saw each other at burning man.

Artist of the Day: Grandmother's Glasses - Tamara Lee



grandma's glasses tamara lee belatelier

artist bio: I'm a self taught photographer who has a deep appreciation of the photographic arts. Each day I strive to be a better artist than the day before. Website: belatelierphotography.com
---
This photograph reminds me of my great great grandmother Cora. After all these years, I recognize she is the only true kindred soul I have ever known. I knew her for a very brief time. I miss her very much.

Atlanta, Georgia artist Tamara Lee self-describes as an autodidact.

I love self-taught artists. 

If you think about it, all artists, regardless of their degrees, are self-taught.  Consider: who taught Picasso Cubism? Van Gogh his brush technique, O'Keefe her original content juxtapositions, Pollack his drip technique?

If you are an artist, regardless of whether you have formal training or not, you are brave.

Watch & Listen Playlist: September 7-9


vintage fan f2images

All I need is a cool breeze and these songs for the weekend. What about you?

Missing - Beck
Sante Fe - Beirut
Cumbia de los Meurtos - Ozomatli
Breathe Easy - Rachel Sermanni
Falling Up - Melissa Etheridge
Take a Walk - Passion Pit
Hard Way Home - Brandi Carlile
Drive Darling - Boy
Che Che Cole - Antibalas
You Woke Me Up - Andrew Bird
Heart of Glass - Blondie
Baggage Claim - Miranda Lambert
Lost and Found - Lianne La Havas
Superstition - Stevie Wonder
Marrow - St. Vincent
Burning Down the House - Talking Heads
Rubbles - Moddi
I Know What I Know - Paul Simom
Reboot the Mission - The Wallflowers
In the Summer - Jordan Hull
National Anthem - Lana Del Rey
Tell Me A Tale - Michael Kiwanuka
1904 - The Tallest Man on Earth
See the World - Gomez
14 - Carrousel

Artist of the Day: Utah State Map & North Carolina State Map - Mollie Mattin

utah state map mollie mattin
 
artist bio: I am a self-taught artist living in central Ohio with my teenage son and my rescue dog, Lucy. After many years in the corporate world, I went back to school to study graphic design and am loving school. I love to create art of all kinds and work in all types of media. My attention span is quite short, so switching subjects often is normal for me.
---
I've been watching the DNC every night this week, just like I watched the RNC held in Florida last week.
 
My husband has snored through every single speech. I woke him up numerous times with my laughter, clapping, loud whoops, histrionic sniffing, and heel thrumming.
 
Watching politics is interactive for me, like skype, (although I really know it is one way): I talk to the speakers, agree, get after them, agree to disagree, gesticulate, and take their pictures, as in stand before the screen and click away. I have quite a collection of television photos.
 
What does any of this have to do with Utah? I woke my husband during one of tonight's speeches and he asked me what I was watching. He knows exactly what I'm watching. I knew he was sleep talking, but come on.  I told him the DNC. He asked if it was in Utah, or what?
 
Out of the two of us, he likes to watch the news, so he absolutely has to know the convention is held in North Carolina. I knew I was talking to a man emerging straight out of REM sleep, but I answered him anyway. I told him if it was in Utah, I would be there.   
 
It's been a great two weeks. Now I don't want to hear any more of it. Wouldn't it be sublime if the debates and elections were held next week, and we could just get on with it?
 

Poem Therapy at 7:29 P.M 6 September 2012: The Future Is An Animal - Tina Chang

The Future Is An Animal
Tina Chang

In every kind of dream I am a black wolf 
careening through a web. I am the spider 
who eats the wolf and inhabits the wolf's body.
In another dream I marry the wolf and then 
am very lonely. I seek my name and they name me 
Lucky Dragon. I would love to tell you that all 
of this has a certain ending but the most frightening
stories are the ones with no ending at all. 
The path goes on and on. The road keeps forking, 
splitting like an endless atom, splitting 
like a lip, and the globe is on fire. As many
times as the book is read, the pages continue
to grow, multiply. They said, In the beginning, 
and that was the moral of the original and most 
important story. The story of man. One story. 
I laid my head down and my head was heavy. 
Hair sprouted through the skin, hair black 
and bending toward night grass. I was becoming 
the wolf again, my own teeth breaking 
into my mouth for the first time, a kind of beauty 
to be swallowed in interior bite and fever. 
My mind a miraculous ember until I am the beast. 
I run from the story that is faster than me, 
the words shatter and pant to outchase me. 
The story catches my heels when I turn 
to love its hungry face, when I am willing
to be eaten to understand my fate.
---
In my dream of the future I am a mountain lion with ruched fur anklets like my relatives of the Sahara. Is it my fate to prey on the small in this labyrinth of suburbia?

In another dream I am the snake, coiling and uncoiling, swallowing my tail to outrun my restlessness. Ouroboros, holy, first living being of the universe.

In yet another dream, of a fortnight ago, I am the white whale navigating the narrow channel of an amusement park theme tunnel. My fluke-shaped tail propelling this large head-shaped body through the tunnel and under the asphalt bridge. Hundreds of feet pound above, while I float in the womb dark netherworld. My belly is ribbed and vaulted like a cathedral and I am alone with my prayers.

In my dream of the future I am the spider that leaves the empty suitcases on the floor of my intricately woven web I formerly called my life, and parachutes to freedom on a slender strand of silk.

In the cathedral of my dreams, a pin light from a votive flame shines through the incense fog.

My future is an animal. I am lion, snake, whale, spider. I am all the animals of my dreams, that live in flesh and memory.