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9:00 p.m., Monday, September 24, 2001

Last night, I saw the Woolworth Building, now one of the tallest "old New York" buildings in the region, in a whole new light. Across from City Hall, it stood as a monument against the ghostly white shadow of the World Trade Center search-and-recovery lights. Instead of looking like the beautiful, newly renovated building that it is, it reminded me of the Witch's Castle in The Wizard of Oz. The only word -- not so eloquent -- that came to mind: "spooky." Especially knowing all that was going on beneath that ghoulish wash.

I find myself frequently searching for "the positive side" of things right now, and was overjoyed to find that the city had washed down the streets, eliminating much of the harsh powder that had pervaded the air. I also focused on the displays of flags, the added security measures, and the swarms of police officers who seem to genuinely want to be there, genuinely want to serve. Still, there is a disingenuousness in my own feelings that even I perceive: I want too much to find the positives -- and when I find them, I feel no sincere pleasure -- just a desperate clinging to a past reality.

Life will never be the same in New York, although everyone attempts to keep up a brave front. People frequently gather in groups, chat and laugh, discuss anything other than the tragedy. But within minutes, somethingends the respite, and the subject reverts. It has a hold on us, a morbid fascination, a hypnotic trance, a daily presence.

In some ways, the reality is only settling in now. People who have remained focused on other business are suddenly showing the strain. Some, comfortably leading normal lives, are overcome with panic attacks, unable to move or to breathe. Some burst into tears without provocation. Others simply recognize the reality of never feeling safe again. It is a city of post-traumatic stress syndrome that refuses to seek help, masquerading as a normal, healthy citizen who loves to dine, shop and entertain out.

Of course, the cruel and twisted enjoy vexing us; hardly a day passes now without a warning, a bomb scare, or similar provocation. This morning, a friend arrived at the Port Authority bus terminal only to find hundreds of people screaming and surging toward the exits; she tore off her heels and ran barefoot through the building, not knowing why, just following the masses. She later learned that there had been a bomb scare, and the throngs of tourists and commuters were not about to wait for orderly directions. Twelve hours later, she was still visibly shaken, the reality of the day -- and moreso, the reality of the last two weeks -- surfacing for the first time.

I have definitely experienced these feelings, personally. When I'm locked away in the office, life is normal and free. But as soon as I walk outside, I cast a wary eye on passersby: could it be him? him? her?

I haven't yet brought myself to riding the subway, preferring cabs for my daily commute, even if the combination of walking and riding takes twice as long as it should. I don't wish to stay in the apartment by myself, preferring the company of colleagues and friends, although I used to enjoy solitude. Before traveling back to Maryland, I weigh the risks, and cancelled a trip this past weekend. Most dramatic for me, I recently cancelled a much-anticipated vacation so I wouldn't have to fly.

Unlike many others, though, I won't apologize for my behavior, as unreasonable as it may seem. It's my way of coping. I'll move on, I'll live my life, but cautiously. Of course I will return to normal travel and a normal routine, but not just yet. I need to feel as if the ground is solid beneath my feet, without the prognostic rumbling that I felt as the Towers collapsed, and that I feel every day like a phantom limb. This, at least at this particular juncture in my life, seems reasonable to me.

For everyone here, there's a sense of waiting for the next event. While we gorge ourselves on the latest news and behave as objective observers, we also look up into the skies, at the person next to us, at every box that's delivered, every car that passes, every elevator we're about to enter, with suspicion. What is going to be next? Who is going to be affected? Will it be New York, DC, or some other place? And most of all, when?

Meanwhile, the phones are ringing, the taxis honking, and deadlines mounting. Push the insecurities away, and get back to work.