| 09 August 2006 End of the World I was comforted to be able to do some planning for the end of the world. We have had a few occasions to do so, what with the thugs and their bombs, and the odd hurricane. It was useful to know the end was coming in advance, since it gave me a chance to place ice in the big plastic bags and move them over to the crisper section on the refrigerator. Thus, I reasoned, the perishable food will not perish from this earth. I located the stock of semi-fresh batteries and the little florescent light they power, as well as the little radio. I ensured the iPod was charged, and was prepared to carry my library of tunes over across the abyss. I unzipped the black baf and checked the Bose earphones, which have their own battery power boost the iPod signal to maximum volume. I lined up the candles, and make a pot of coffee while the power still works. That is about all you can do, I suppose. I knew the end was coming once I saw the firetrucks arrayed around Big Pink. The infrastructure had been damaged, but no one knew how badly. The power compnay scheduled the end for the working week, to minimize overtime. Management of the building used the last hours of electricity to produce flyers announcing the end was near, and thus my preparations were complete when it happened. The issue was the massive transformer buried in its vault, that much we knew, and then there was the question of the lines that connect the power grid to the building through its coils. It was wounded, certainly; perhaps fatally. There were hopeful estimates of time-of-estimated-repair, they remained only Hope. In the meantime, there would have to be a complete shut-down to conduct a full assessment of the damage. The actual End came as I paddled in the pool with a Crime Scene Investigator from New Orleans, who had brought his family north to unsuccessfully dodge the heat in the Crescent City. He had a thin moustache, out of a film noir story, and a slightly feral aspect, as did his daughters. We looked up at the massive flanks of the building and watched as the lights of the apartments winked out. First went the circuit that feeds my unit, and then the one for the front of the building, and finally the lights to the pool complex. We floated there in the darkness for a moment until the stern replacement Czech left his post and told us to get out of the water. He could no longer guarantee our safety, and thus we were cast out of the cool water and into the humid darkness. Later, by the dancing light of the candles, I dialed up one of the news stations on the radio. The air was still in the apartment, and the heat from the last rays of day slow to dissipate. I had the front door propped open, hoping for some sort of cross ventilation from the windows and balcony door. It was futile, and having the door open made me feel vulnerable. The light from the candles was welcome, but counterbalanced by the heat that emanated from the flickering flames. The sweat dripped from my forehead I blew them out, and listened to the news in the dark. I heard that a “top Mideast expert” had announced the end of the world in an opinion piece in the Wall Street Journal. In the stillness I counted the number of lies it was possible to capture in that simple phrase. I stopped at three, fatigued by the exertion. Bernard Lewis is the name of the expert, and he says that the end of the world will happen on the 22nd of this month. He says that the observance of the Night of the Sira'a and Miira'aj is why the Iranians have delayed responding to the proposals on their nuclear program. Mr. Lewis contends that President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is telling his people to get ready for the return of the Hidden Imam, and get their batteries and candles together. The moment of his reappearance could coincide with the anniversary of the Prophet's epic Night Journey, on which he rode the burro Bourak to the furthest mosque from Mecca, and to heaven and hell. The location of the mosque is taken by experts to mean the one on the foundations of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, within sight of the place of the Crucifixion. The journey justifies the claim of the Prophet to that land, marked by his heel-print in stone. Subsequently, the claim has been expanded to all the lands. I turned off the news and turned on the iPod, plugging in the Bose headset, which I once used to cancel out the disturbing ambiance of air travel. The leather of the ear pieces slid over my sweat slicked temples. The music was loud, and had no reference whatsoever to the coming apocalypse. I listened in the living room, and later on top of the quilt in the bedroom, the heat sufficient to bring a certain external fever, with dreams to match. The iPod died sometime in the small hours, as the full moon floated cool and serene across the open window. When the light had come up enough to see things dimly, I left the sodden bed and caught myself before I opened the refrigerator to grab the jug of cold water. Tepid tap would have to do until the power came back. I turned on the news radio to see if the end of my way of life had been reflected in the wider world. Apparently it had. The once-liberal Senator had been sent packing by the voters in Connecticutt who were seeking a more progressive opponent. In Michigan, a moderate Republican had been defeated by those who want to move further right. The political lanscape seemed to be shaping up for a dramatic struggle between Gog and Magog in November, though I thought that since the world was likely to be over by the end of the month it would not matter. There were reports of rockets and safe rooms from Israel, where power mostly remains on, and a man named Fisk reported on the carnage in Lebanon, where the power is mostly off. His voice across the miles was filled with righteous outrage, and I imagined him with the visage of a Crime Scene Investigator, and a pencil moustache. Mr. Fisk is on the ground there, with plenty of batteries to power his links to the global information grid. His name has become a verb, I noted, marveling that the gas still worked at Big Pink, even if the electric igniter was dead. With the application of flame, the gas burned merrily. To be “Fisked” is to have your facts checked, which can be inconvenient to a good story. That could even spoil an account of the end of the world, but Mr. Lewis and President Ahmadinejad are clever enough to keep the end in the future. Heck, even I know that. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |