DEAR DIARY:

September 17, 2001

Shakespeare said "Our little lives are rounded with a sleep."

For some of us, it seems, our little lives are rounded with a war.

I saw Gerta Grunen's show at DANNY'S SKYLIGHT ROOM last Sunday, a tribute to the war years, the 40s ... assembly lines, war bonds, and music ... an outpouring of songs to make our GIs feel that they're efforts were appreciated, or that lovers, waiting at home, were true; songs that told of the innocent longing that was the 40s: NO LOVE, NO NOTHIN', AIN'T MISBEHAVIN', SATURDAY NIGHT IS THE LONELIEST NIGHT OF THE WEEK, I'M IN LOVE WITH A SOLDIER BOY, and so many others.

War was out there somewhere, in a strange foreign country, and our boys were out there helping, laying their lives on the line, ridding the world of terror.

I thought, god, the Beatles hadn't even written "YESTERDAY," (the song I lately found myself singing over and over again since last Tuesday), the World Trade Center hadn't been built, and Osama bin Laden wasn't even born.

What happened in between? What the hell happened the sixty years in between?

And why?

Colette

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