The Pan Flute Plays On

I didn't see any news last night. When I got up and checked the weather this morning it took me a minute to understand the information.

Funny, I don't feel any safer.

There is dancing in the streets. There is rejoicing. There's a lot of self righteous gladness ripe with the unspoken challenge, "I dare you to condemn me for celebrating this death."

I don't feel any safer. I don't feel any happier. I feel something but I didn't know what until I emerged from the subway in Grand Central station to a familiar sight from long ago. Clusters of navy-clad men with helmets and kevlar and automatic weapons. There was a well-groomed, excited young German Shepherd dog barely able to maintain his seat next to a handler. All of them serenaded by the grating sounds of the pan flute ensemble who play that alcove every weekday morning.

I started to cry. Suddenly I knew how I felt. I feel thrown back. I feel as though it's ten years ago and nothing has changed. I feel hopeless and I wanted to just sit down next to that dog and weep into it's silky black fur because the worst thing of all is that I can't think of any acceptable alternative to killing Osama bin Laden. The only possible action has been taken and it hasn't changed anything.

So many are cheering this as a momentous occasion. It's something all right.

But it's not peace.