Tomorrow the Mayans will sadly prove their prescience and we'll all be cast off the surface of the planet and into the limitless abyss or some great Cthulhu will rise from the Laurentian Abyss to devastate us in its Old God fury or hot places will freeze and cold places will melt and terror wind will spin us all to death in ice-sharded flame. Hell, why not all of that together?
Why not? Because post-diluvian apocalypses have not occurred, at least not since Toba, 70,000 or so years ago. Oh, they've been talked and written about, ad nauseum, but here we are, still prepping and predicting.
And yet, I think the preoccupation with apocalypses doesn't have to do with the mass deaths, but, paradoxically, with individual life. No matter the apocalyptic prophecy, there are always survivors who must struggle in the post-apocalyptic era, be they the gas diviners of Mad Max, the Father and Son of the cannabalistic wastes of The Road, the bumblingly incompetent fools of The Walking Dead, or, perhaps, even all of us today since the ancient historian Josephus claimed that the Holy Spirit fled the world at the destruction of the Temple by the Romans in 70AD. Even the Christian Revelation, for all its horror build-up, ends with judgment of the living and dead. We all, secretly, despite the scarring torment of seeing our friends and family die, want to believe we have what it takes to make it through.
"*They* might die.*They* might have to die. But not *me*. *I* won't die. *I* can't be killed. *I* have a plan."
Three years ago, I was having dinner with a buddy and the bubbly waitress, cute as a button and as smart as one to boot, chatted us up. Somehow, she got wide-eyed and asked us if we were scared of the Mayan Apocalypse that was coming in a few years. I explained I was a former Army officer just getting ready to willfully go to Afghanistan and he was a Force Recon Marine who'd served in both warzones so, no, we weren't particularly scared. She pressed.
"But what if they're right?"
"Oh, well, then I suppose I'd go to the coast, find a sailboat, and ride it out. You don't want to be on land for the apocalypse. Noah taught us that."
"Can you sail a boat?"
"I used to be able to. I have a few years to get this all figured out."
"Can I come with you?!"
"Sure, we need pretty girls to rebuild civilization."
"I don't know how to build anything."
I looked at my buddy. He looked at me. I kept my straight face.
"I'll explain it to you when it's time."
"How will I find you?"
"Head to the coast. Stay off the main roads. I'll be in the sailboat."
"Okay!"
At that point, she went off to fetch us another round of beers. He asked me if I needed to borrow his wheels to take her out after she got off shift. I declined because I don't mess with button-smart women, regardless of how cute.
I mention all of that because, again, deep down, I think we all want the apocalypse, any apocalypse, to happen, prepostrous as it might seem. For Y2K, my cousin and friends and I stayed up at my pop's place in the mountains. I joked we should do it there because if everything went to hell, it is eminently defensible. Of course I was joking, but, you know what? It *is* eminently defensible.
It dawned on me this morning, perhaps the last we'll ever know if/when the Mayans are right, that I now live on the coast. I bought a sailboat and learned how to use it (sorta), and I live a 30-minute, weapon-laden run from my marina.
Mandee, wherever you are, head to the coast, stay off the main roads, and look for me in the sailboat. Bring scented candles and some wine. We'll rebuild civilization. Trust me.
Why not? Because post-diluvian apocalypses have not occurred, at least not since Toba, 70,000 or so years ago. Oh, they've been talked and written about, ad nauseum, but here we are, still prepping and predicting.
And yet, I think the preoccupation with apocalypses doesn't have to do with the mass deaths, but, paradoxically, with individual life. No matter the apocalyptic prophecy, there are always survivors who must struggle in the post-apocalyptic era, be they the gas diviners of Mad Max, the Father and Son of the cannabalistic wastes of The Road, the bumblingly incompetent fools of The Walking Dead, or, perhaps, even all of us today since the ancient historian Josephus claimed that the Holy Spirit fled the world at the destruction of the Temple by the Romans in 70AD. Even the Christian Revelation, for all its horror build-up, ends with judgment of the living and dead. We all, secretly, despite the scarring torment of seeing our friends and family die, want to believe we have what it takes to make it through.
"*They* might die.*They* might have to die. But not *me*. *I* won't die. *I* can't be killed. *I* have a plan."
Three years ago, I was having dinner with a buddy and the bubbly waitress, cute as a button and as smart as one to boot, chatted us up. Somehow, she got wide-eyed and asked us if we were scared of the Mayan Apocalypse that was coming in a few years. I explained I was a former Army officer just getting ready to willfully go to Afghanistan and he was a Force Recon Marine who'd served in both warzones so, no, we weren't particularly scared. She pressed.
"But what if they're right?"
"Oh, well, then I suppose I'd go to the coast, find a sailboat, and ride it out. You don't want to be on land for the apocalypse. Noah taught us that."
"Can you sail a boat?"
"I used to be able to. I have a few years to get this all figured out."
"Can I come with you?!"
"Sure, we need pretty girls to rebuild civilization."
"I don't know how to build anything."
I looked at my buddy. He looked at me. I kept my straight face.
"I'll explain it to you when it's time."
"How will I find you?"
"Head to the coast. Stay off the main roads. I'll be in the sailboat."
"Okay!"
At that point, she went off to fetch us another round of beers. He asked me if I needed to borrow his wheels to take her out after she got off shift. I declined because I don't mess with button-smart women, regardless of how cute.
I mention all of that because, again, deep down, I think we all want the apocalypse, any apocalypse, to happen, prepostrous as it might seem. For Y2K, my cousin and friends and I stayed up at my pop's place in the mountains. I joked we should do it there because if everything went to hell, it is eminently defensible. Of course I was joking, but, you know what? It *is* eminently defensible.
It dawned on me this morning, perhaps the last we'll ever know if/when the Mayans are right, that I now live on the coast. I bought a sailboat and learned how to use it (sorta), and I live a 30-minute, weapon-laden run from my marina.
Mandee, wherever you are, head to the coast, stay off the main roads, and look for me in the sailboat. Bring scented candles and some wine. We'll rebuild civilization. Trust me.
No comments:
Post a Comment