tora bora warra.

Things are getting absurd round here.

I'm planning a wedding. No, wait, there's more than that. I'm becoming a breeder. Freedom is fading; comfort is settling in like a dog on a lap, and I'm pretty much okay with that. I've been having these strange domestic urges for a while, and I think the decision to get married was a reflection of similar feelings on Marc's part. I'm doing more laundry. I'm making the bed. I'm even saving money.

An internal audit reveals that these feelings originated around the same time as this country was attacked in a fit of religious fervor. I've heard a lot about comfort sex, but not too much about comfort comfort. I wonder, are weddings on the rise? Are husbands and wives snuggling closer at night? Are you eating at home more? Macaroni and cheesing yourself to contentedness?

So, there's the onslaught of florists and fittings and fondant and frankly, it's overwhelming but it's also kind of, I don't know... cozy? Reassuring?

I worry about Marc (as I worry about all of my friends... a symptom, I think, of genetic origin), working in Manhattan. He's close to the UN. I visited his office for the first time Tuesday and noticed that there are concrete barriers outside the doors on 42nd St, set up in order to block the manic suicidal truck-drivers. I worry about chlorine gas, and being too far underground, and the things I can't even think up myself.

But of course, this isn't Afghanistan. This isn't even Jerusalem. We're fundamentally safe, with nothing to fear but fear itself and the occasional manic imagination bringing its secret plots to fruition. And still I wonder, how can I commit to a family in a time like this? How can I even think about telling a child, my child, that everything's okay and we're okay?

Love is how. I wish for a field of force to surround us, to shroud everyone and keep us safe, and sane. I wish it for myself, and I wish it for you.