- Published on
I am thinking about the apocalypse. That's what I tell people when they ask me why I have such and such and do such and such these days. It's funny to see their faces twitch and try to make sense of my words.
I merely mean I am in crisis. I fuss over things. Meaningless things, maybe, like the world.
Looking back, I wonder why there were so many quiet apocalyptic films in the last decade and a half—Seeking A Friend at the End of the World, This Is the End, World's End, Melancholia, These Final Hours, The Road, and even that dumb one, 2012.
Maybe it's my own mortality that I am wrestling with. I am at a crossroads. I am scared of the future. My doctor's visits have become frequent, and now they recommend things like mammograms and pap smears, and I shrug and freeze.
I re-visit the past because it's safer, and my mother was alive. I hate November.
My apple tree did not bloom this summer. My garden turned to weeds. And the pests are back scratching my walls.
I turned down the Christmas party because it's a showcase for salesmanship. I want ballrooms and midnight gowns and masquerades.
I still dream of the goddess who walks realms. I think of the priestess who controls time and space. I cannot make them flesh. I am a three-dimensional being trapped in four-dimensional spacetime that I cannot control.
The book tours have been fun and successful. Lots of places I went and people I met.