May 21st, 2011 was supposed to be the End Times, or the End of Times or The Rapture... Judgement Day, depending on which lunatic placard you read, if not all of them. It was a day of good humor for most of us, rife with good-natured back-slapping and jokes and social media memes. Fast forward to 2016 and the presidential front runner is an orange, hate-filled Oompa Loompa. It's hard to tell if his supporters have any real faith in his message, or if they just want to fuck things up, take their toys and go home. Either way, people are angry, with a heaping dose of ignorant on the side. It's easy to believe that just maybe the geezer predicting the 2011 Rapture was right when he said he only meant all along that it was the beginning of the end.
For today, we are still here.
I awoke this morning to the sound of cheers and 10,000 pairs of flapping sneakers beating down Ocean Parkway... the Brooklyn Half-Marathon. People are getting fit for The Rapture, or maybe each deciding to tuck in one more big personal accomplishment while they're still breathing this particularly un-rarefied air. If it all came down right this instant there would be 10,000 pairs of expensive running shoes and high performance athletic gear littering the road. If memory serves, everyone will be headed naked into the afterlife. They'd better hope that self-consciousness is one of the things they leave behind.
I dreamed last night, or early this morning, that I was in some kind of a family therapy session with my sons. They were still teenagers and not at all into the session. They sat at the table hunched over a piece of paper and scribbling equations, and speaking in some Kalahari click dialect, interesting given their melanin shortage and having never traveled to South Central Africa, or even South Central Los Angeles for that matter. I was confused and frustrated. Where had they developed this and why hadn't I noticed before? Why wouldn't they speak English and engage in the session when I asked, and then loudly demanded? What the hell was this? I explained over and over, on the brink of tears, that I only wanted things to be right. I only wanted to fix things.
There are easy interpretations, aren't there? Dreams often come though, in their own alien tongue, so though it's tempting to go for the simple explanation, I remain wary. I'm going to have to think on this one.
For now, it's shit, shower and shave for a rare Saturday work day.
I will remember to look skyward for a sign or two.