Waiting for the end

As the theme of this blog concerns my fears about the fate of humanity, I suppose it would make sense to address the fact that the world was supposed to have ended several hours ago. I am writing this at 0:33 on Saturday 22^nd December, 2012, and as far as I can see we are still here. Unless the main consequence of the apocalypse is one grand hallucination which looks distinctly pre-apocalyptic. But then, why not accept that the whole shebang is some form of brains-in-vats, Matrix-like virtual reality and be done with it?

I can’t help wondering what it must have been like for those that really did believe that the world was going to end. To be thinking that death was inevitable and imminent, that all that one cared about was about to be horrifically destroyed . . . I simply can’t imagine what genuine anticipation of such a catastrophic scenario could have felt like. Terror? Acceptance? Liberty? Or, like my own fears that are the premise for this blog (see First entry), was it just Too Much to Compute?

What is worse: a sudden, unexpected cataclysmic life-event, or drawn-out anticipation of something terrible yet inevitable? I guess the answer is obvious, and that the chance to come to terms and say goodbye beforehand is an evident blessing. The chance to really value time spent together, to really appreciate what other human beings bring to us, just before it is too late. For so many different butterfly-wing-triggered reasons, every meeting could be the last, every goodbye final, without us knowing until after the event. But when those of the medical profession pass verdict, and a loved one’s end becomes that much more inevitable and imminent, only then do we stop taking things for granted. Yet we also, somehow, resist grinding to a halt; we keep muddling on, and waiting.

My grandmother, having barely suffered a day of ill health in all her life, was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 81 and given only weeks to live. And so all the family, herself included, got on with life, whilst waiting for her death that bit more consciously than before. I would find myself imagining where I would be when I finally received the news, how I would react; even how, at her funeral, I would finally meet all the people she had talked about but never introduced to me. In the end, she lived for two more years, and when the news finally came I was in a foreign country, pregnant, and unable to travel to her funeral.

In 2002 my grandfather (other side of the family) suffered a major stroke that left him severely disabled, unable to move, speak or eat. Coming shortly after a heart operation, he was not really expected to survive long. In fact he lived, bedridden, immobile and pretty much incomprehensible, for more than ten years. When he finally passed away I was in a foreign country, breastfeeding a newborn baby, and unable to travel to the funeral.

With age the waiting games inevitably move closer to home. My current "game" began over a year ago: as early as the diagnosis for some; only when chemotherapy was withdrawn for the more optimistic/naive (me). I suspect, for the person concerned, it began as soon as she acknowledged the symptoms, and chose to seek medical help later rather than sooner. Sometimes I imagine where I will be when I finally receive the news. Will I somehow know, when it happens, via cosmic resonances or some such paranormal phenomenon, before I get THE phone call? Or will I be in the room at the moment of passing, and really be "there" for her?

I know that I must appreciate the time left, value every moment, and be grateful for the fact that every goodbye so far has not turned out to be the last. But I also find myself somehow becoming numb to the anticipation. As always, I keep doing what the everyday dictates, and just keep muddling on. More to follow.

Generation Alphabet

Today I encountered the expression ‘Generation Y’ for the first time. This generation, apparently, is the first for which the internet has pretty much always existed, and has markedly different needs and expectations concerning knowledge acquisition, time-keeping and long-term career aims, to which current educators and employers (presumably themselves of Generation X or previous) must adapt.

The concept is fascinating and no doubt sociologically useful. In keeping with the theme of this blog, however, what scares me is the implication that Generation Z, by definition the last, is only one letter away. By this time society/the planet/civilization etc. will have destroyed itself/been destroyed delete as appropriate. Trite suggestions that sociologists will simply have to start again, with Generation AA like the batteries, or Generation A+ like school grades, don’t wash with me I’m afraid.

It makes me think of a book I studied at school, Z for Zachariah by Robert C. O‘Brien, published in 1974, and apparently soon to be made into a film (thank you Google and Wikipedia). The story is set in the aftermath of a destructive nuclear war, in which possibly the only surviving girl, living in an isolated meteorological enclave, encounters possibly the only surviving man, traveling in a prototype anti-radiation suit. The title comes from the girl’s recollection of a bible-based alphabet reader, in which A is for Adam and Z is for Zachariah; as Adam was the first man, as a child she assumed that Zachariah must be the last man.

Z for the last man, or the last generation; if one is so inclined, the designation of the end of the alphabet seems to be a doom-laden portent (yes, I know they only started at Generation X, x being the unknown à la algebra, to designate the post-baby boom generation - or the “baby-bust generation’, I read somewhere - thanks again Google).

Let’s see if I cannot rationalize myself into some optimism. There must be places on the planet where the English language and its alphabet have not yet taken over, and where those born at the end of the 20th century have not had the opportunity (or misfortune) to be raised online. There must be places, in remote jungles or deserts at least, where alphabetical generational labels and information-overload technology have little relevance. Perhaps life will survive in such places long after our first-world culture has fried itself in an excess of electromagnetic radiation (X-Y-Z rays?).

First entry

I’ll be honest from the start. I’m writing this blog because I need to write. It is a compulsion that ninety-nine percent of the time I successfully suppress beneath the obligations of work, parenthood and day-to-day life. I’m not pretending - although of course I’m hoping - that there will be anything worth reading.

So the obvious question: why inflict my self-indulgent, self-help-therapy musings on the wwworld? Well, it seems that I’m a would-be wanna-be writer who needs to at least they have the possibility of would-be readers. And now the internet makes this so ridiculously easy that I don’t even feel particularly guilty about it. I’m not making anyone read this, after all.

So why the title? The vague theme of this blog, insofar as it can be said to have a theme, is my attempt to get to grips with the inevitable fears of our times. There seem to be so many reasons to be terrified of what the future holds, soon or perhaps a little further ahead, probably in my lifetime and certainly that of my children.

It seems blindingly obvious that the current global situation is unstable and unsustainable. Society is balanced on a precarious stack of orange boxes that can only come tumbling down. I’m far from expert enough to say what will “get” us first: the collapse of the economic system, and with it the over-stretched supply lines that feed us; or ecological crisis, once we’ve pillaged and poisoned our planet to the point that life - or at least our current lifestyles and populations - can no longer be supported. I suspect both, hand-in-hand, two sides of the same coin. Either will result in immense chaos and many dead.

But what really amazes me - and this is where this blog comes in - is my ability to live with this situation. I fear the future, but not enough, it seems. I can completely put this fear aside, and manage to lose myself in the petty stresses of the everyday present - washing up to do, clothes to fold, sleep to lack. I can even allow myself to hanker after a mains charger for the mp3 player or some other such unnecessary, planet-guzzling gizmo.

It is this incredible contradiction that often fuels the small but fizzy part of my brain that ‘needs to write’ - as if, but marshalling my inner conflicts into the discipline of the written word, they will somehow become more manageable. So here goes. With any luck, this will be more about the muddling that the fear. Perhaps a better title would be “(my) life, and how to worry about it” … but a problem shared, after all…