Now that the fifth anniversary of 9/11 has safely passed by, I think I will write about it.

At right you will see a photo of a Central Park Zoo polar bear, although not the one that I went to watch swim in neverending, mesmerising circles several days after 9/11 when the search was still on for non-existent survivors and smiling to yourself or having a pleasant phone conversation meant treason to whoever might be buried below a mile away, scratching at the rubble above (I'm not being sarcastic, this is how it felt). No, the one that Meghna and I watched was much bigger than this, and its size made its neurotic episode that much more interesting and creepy. We had just come from looking in at an empty display that was supposed to house a bird of some kind; there were no birds, just little mice scurrying around on the ground who, I helpfully explained to the little kid pressing his face against the glass below me, had probably eaten whatever bird was once inside. Meghna said this was a mean thing to say to him but it put me in a much better mood and the kid didn't really seem to mind.

Anyway, we wandered over to the polar bear pool which that afternoon (it was Saturday, September 15, five years today no less!) was inhabited by just the one bear; I suppose the other two were hiding away in their cave. He was a big beautiful fluffy thing, so fluffy and pure white that all you wanted to do was carefully lower yourself over the fence and hold him tight in a big fluffy bear hug. Nancy later explained to me that polar bears are very aggressive, hungry animals and I would have been immediately torn to pieces and my brains and entrails greedily feasted upon and that this one in particular, Gus, had been seeing an animal psychologist for some time. (She also brought me in to see the penguins one night after midnight, long after the zoo had been closed down, in their little polar auditorium. They all stood perfectly still and upright even as they slept, all of them facing out through the glass and toward us, the audience, and illuminated in a strange blue light. My best date ever. This all happened much later of course, since I hadn't even met Nancy yet.)

So Gus was big and fluffy and cute and he was also certifiably insane. At first we were like, oh look the supercute polar bear is taking his exercise and being frisky and we watched as he methodically swam in a circle in his little pool, stopping only to lift himself half out of the water onto a rock and then plunge back down into the water. He also made sure to always touch the submerged viewing glass where people could watch from below. We wandered down below and saw that he was still doing his little routine, with nary a change. Oh look, we said, he's still doing it, isn't that funny. Fifteen minutes later, it was the same: rock, swim, touch glass, swim, rock ad infinitum. No, seriously, ad infinitum. Finally Meghna started getting weirded out and said we had to go, so we moved on, only checking back about an hour later to discover that yes, Gus was still doing his crazy thing.

I suppose it was as normal of a day as one is allowed to have with those smoking ruins and possible survivors (not) waiting to be uncovered not so far away. Being freaked out by a neurotic polar bear and wondering what happened to those birds while waiting for them to call off that stupid, horrible search. Frank Rich had a bitch fest the other day in his New York Times column about a photo taken on 9/11 showing young people hanging out on the Brooklyn waterfront, smiling and talking, as the horizon burned away. He said something to the effect that maybe these people had lost someone or really were saddened but you would never know by the look of it and that that's what Americans do, they move on, especially the young ones.

People are having a fit about that one, probably because they all recognize a little of themselves in that photo, especially the New Yorkers. I mean, WTF are you supposed to do? There were as yet no survivors for our blood, there was nothing for us to do as volunteers, and as for me, I didn't even have a job then (I had cleverly quit my job next door to the South Tower the Friday before). Like most people I didn't even remotely know anyone who had died, so I wasn't sure exactly who or what I was grieving for, or if I was even supposed to be grieving. So I went to the zoo. It seemed logical at the time, better than sitting around and feeling sick. There were a lot of other people there too and it was pretty festive, let me tell you, in this strange and removed, sometimes horrible way.

And now it's five years later and I ask myself: is Gus still crazy or has he stabilized through a helpful mix of therapy and drugs? Was he able to handle the death two years ago of Lily, his polar bear girlfriend, from cancer? Why are we at war in Iraq again? (sorry, had to slip that one in) Where DID those birds go and did I scar that little kid for life? How do you decide when to stop searching for survivors, and who decides? Is there a particular number of days, hours, minutes, seconds that you allow? Is there a formula? Is it okay to be sad about the death of thousands of people who never touched you and to enjoy yourself in the face of the death of those thousands? Hmm, I could probably google half those answers, and find the other half on wikipedia, but maybe most of them are best left unanswered ...