On apocalypse, and how we've already figured out how to survive.
Just an easy breezy topic for your Sunday second-coffee.
Growing up, I always secretly kind of fancied myself the heroine in a hypothetical dystopian post-apocalyptic storyline. It would be me, maybe, who would be the chosen one (would I fein hesitancy or reluctance? That really does something for the plot, you know) to rally the group, give some inspired speech, lead us into battle against whatever it was we were fighting. Maybe I’d be invited to be like, I don’t know, a thought leader for the new way of governance, touting everybody just take a breath, touting what would Mary Oliver have to say about this, touting great and impressive questions like, how can we best take care of each other so that no one is left behind? (I will tell you right now, I will not be brought in for snappy decision making, operations, implementation, or anything practical. If I’m the best person for the job, wow, our new world is going to be teetery on the roll-out of these new Ways Of Living.)
I, like approximately 99% of North America, recently watched each episode of ‘The Last Of Us’ as soon as it dropped (for those of you who haven’t indulged in the cultural phenomenon that is Pedro Pascal’s furrowed brow, Bella Ramsey’s spitfire what’s-she-going-to-do-next attitude, and Nick Offerman’s singular performance as absolutely charming doomsday prepper who will make you cry every time you see a strawberry for the rest of your life, ‘The Last Of Us’ is a show (based on a video game) about a post-apocalyptic world, which takes place after a mutated fungus kills nearly everyone. There is only a marginal amount of zombie-like fungus-monsters involved (aka tolerable for the squirmy and jump-scare adverse). I think it’s pretty much the first intense — certainly the first dystopian — show I’ve consumed since you-know-what changed our world (during and since which I’ve pretty strictly kept myself exclusively watching Rupaul’s Drag Race; I’ve had no capacity to take in anything remotely dramatic / dystopian / high stakes of any kind), and it had me reconsidering my opinion of Hypothetical Apocalyptic Jess, what role I can picture for myself, and if I would want to stick around, insist on, and help create a safe, beautiful new reality for humankind.
Who am I, really, to shank a zombie-like fungus-monster between the eyes with a dull steak knife while running for my life? Do I really want to spend decades in a quarantine zone on food stamps, trading — what, poems? LOL — on the black market for a can of chickpeas? And this is to say nothing about a world without coffee beans and deodorant. I am (perhaps, probably) too fickle to live without it. Maybe I’d give it a week and then send myself out to pasture. Bye bye.
I’ve been sitting with this a lot, the idea of giving up the fight. Or not being interested in getting in there in the first place. Hoping I’d be on a beautiful island at the time of apocalypse and could live out my potentially-short-lived days drinking coconut water until my time was up, and could crawl into the ocean if the zombie-like fungus-monsters came for me. And then I started thinking: the world has already ended a thousand times, and continues to end all over the place. It has ended, over and over again. It’s ended in Syria, in Germany. It’s ended during The Troubles in Ireland, bombed out schools and grocery stores and every church for miles. It ends every day when people have to give up their homes because of medical debt, when people can’t get access to food, water, medical aid, when people have to shit on the street because they’ll get arrested in a Starbucks if they don’t buy a latte first (it ends every day that people’s only option for an accessible bathroom is a Starbucks). The world has ended and continues to end in Afghanistan, in Iran. It ends here where I can’t bring myself to have a coffee with an old friend because she endorses Trump. It ends every time someone says, there’s nothing we can do, or nothing will ever change, or my vote doesn’t matter, or everything is corrupt so why try, or I wish I could go back to the good old days.
In every one of these instances of the world ending, people have stayed. People have said, not so, I won’t have it. Have said, there is a better way. People have fallen in love in Ireland, in Afghanistan, have written songs and played them for each other, have made up games for kids huddling in bomb shelters, have played cards sitting on the sidewalk, have found ways to write letters, make secret codes, feed each other, share what they have.
I don’t need to ask myself who I would be in an apocalypse situation. We are in one, have been in one, just like the many that have come before us. The unveiling of this time and how I respond is who I am. (Is this too ridiculous to ask myself if I care to be a part of the revolution?)
Last fall, I was talking with a family member about the latest whatever-it-was that felt like the end of the world (probably another school shooting), and she said to me, “This is how God makes us ready for heaven - the turmoil, the guns, the hatred, I can’t take it anymore. I’m ready to go anytime.” It made me upset on multiple levels - that she would be so ready to leave this earth, and by doing so, leave me. And I also felt protective of this world, this world I work so hard to love, this world I work so hard to find all that is redeemable and good about it, despite. I work so hard to insist that this life and this world is worth the fuss.
The world begins again every time we open a door for a stranger. Every time we teach a kid about accepting each other for who we are. Every time we get out of bed. Every time we say enough and insist that things can be different. Every time we call a friend. Every time we look for the helpers and help them help. Every time we slow our pace down enough to pay attention. Every time we can’t sleep and get up and write down everything that hurts until we find the right word for the thing. Every time we do say something to someone that our younger selves needed to hear. Every time we ask a teenager what they think. Every time we share someone’s art. Every time we say I’m sorry. Every time we say I forgive you. Every time we say, let’s try again.
xo jess.
Ways to connect this month
Woah, when did April happen? (Yesterday, apparently). I’m getting my ducks in a row for more events this month that will be included for paid Substack subscribers, but so far this month, here’s what’s going on:
Monday Prompts happen every Monday for paid Substack subscribers - receive a weekly poem, reflection, and writing prompts for your week.
The Collective Conversation: What To Make Of A Faith Practice
Tuesday, April 18th, 7pm EST on Zoom
(Included for Founding Members on Substack)
Poetry Club: Poems On Deconstruction & Spirituality
Tuesday, April 25th, 7pm EST on Zoom
(Included for paid subscribers on Substack)
Thanks for making the internet a beautiful place to be :)
This was everything I needed today.
This is so good, Jess ♥️