Apocalypse Denied

I guess I was kinda hoping the Mayans were right. Or at least the tabloid New Age version I’d grown up with. Some “far off” date in 2012 would occur and life would end. “Deal”, I thought. “I can do ’til 2012 standing on my head.”

Fall 2012. It was finally happening, I actually got a little excited, but I played it cool. I consciously ignored the news stories about it, the Facebook discussions. I consciously chose to ignore the date as it came up, dismissing any discussion about it. I didn’t look it up or mark it on my calendar. I didn’t want to jinx it, like if I accidentally talked too much about it, it might not happen. But most importantly I wanted to be genuinely surprised. The full apocalypse experience.

But in the darkest part of my stupid little heart, I thought one day I’d get on the bus to head to work, and while I stared aimlessly off the Parkrose Max platform, there’d be a funny smell, or maybe a startling noise. Each earthly ear deafened as every living throat shrieks simultaneously. A livid, howling meatpipe organ of agony, wavering higher and higher as the thousand layers of the blessed veil are ripped from our eternal eyes. My gaze would fall upon the workbooks of a construction laborer, caked with that funny extruded swirl slurry of concrete thin set and silty mud that always reminds me of dying ferns or the filigree on some Victorian sconce work and then I’d have the futile, thrashing fugue of worry about our foolish small world for the last time. My human eyes would weep and melt and smolder, and it wouldn’t even merit screaming through my flaming beard about, for All would Know/See/Hear the 12th Bak t’un was at an end and there would be no more need for calendars or eyes to see them. The time of man and trains and Parkroses would be over. The winter felt bleak enough, the summer short enough, the re-election of Barack ‘R/C Hunting Enthusiast’ Obama hollow enough. Every nut bag in the world out there collecting guns for their ‘big statement shooting’. Fracking? Fracking and flaring? Are you fucking with me. Fall 2012 just had that Apocalypse feeling to it. I thought maybe we had a goer.

And now I’m pruning my apple tree, and cleaning unfrozen dog turds, and pulling out new blackberry from the cursed rock pile in the corner. I even had to clean out the fridge the other day. No miscarried souls in there to drag my unwashed heartfeather to limbo for the big tally, no locusts eating my bread butts, no ichorous grubs fouling my greens; just that gross old chicken juice smell. Bz’cht* the UnPronounceable hasn’t rent from the Heavenly Crystal realm into ours to see what chaos the poison Ego has wrought on Gaia’s juices and gargle its foul fermentation, and frankly it’s February. This is well past tardy and deeply into “being stood up”.

Maybe we all have to live after the rapture.

Maybe it happened, Jesus or Quetz’al or the turtle we all live on the back of came back – just popped in all cool to see how those sick ass monumental, healing teachings they left us with were working out, “POP QUIZ HOT SHOT”, and we were all so distracted by steam whistles or vacuum tubes or our own polyp filled assholes that They couldn’t find anybody who would even pay attention. Crawled out of a cave way out in the middle of the Australian outback on the top of a pile of rocks on the vernal equinox just like all the signs said, like what it told _everybody_ to write down, and the only one present to celebrate was a wild dog who was so scared it threw up, but was so hungry it immediately ate the throwup and skulked away. Cruised up into the stratosphere to figure out what was such a big deal we couldn’t even remember to show up for the big soul weighing mid-term rally, and couldn’t make sense of our jibbering at all. We were busy making shit we didn’t need and trying to sell it to each other in bulk and shitting and shrieking and swatting at each other so noisily that we were unrecognizable as civilized mature organisms. The dominant primate horde little more than an infestation of children, swaddled in shit and money and secrets and hysteria enslaving each other in increasingly small loops with shiny stones and sharp swords. Feral. Unsalvageable. So It-What-Taught just left us in our mess, chuckling darkly as it slid back to the Realm Immemorial.

“Good luck with that 3D printing stuff guys. Sounds great!”

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