It must have been the timing of my Halloween excursion that made the recurrent themes eerily connected: zombies, Armageddon, collapse, chaos. On the other hand there was rallying camaraderie because the Cardinals won the World Series and few ever felt yet another historically-significant earthquake. For those behind on the daily news, that means I was in St. Louis and Arkansas.
In the bars and on the radio stations and at the dinner tables the growing consensus seems to point to something akin to complete human annihilation that will undoubtedly occur at some point in 2012. Every day for the last week I’ve gotten more nods than raised eyebrows, and that is a palpable shift in currents.
Our odd little hobby seems to have gained widespread appeal among family and friends. I’m starting to wonder if I don’t need to create a waiting list and secure deposits for those who now fully appreciate how being on close terms with Handy Hubby and I is just like having a Doomsday Disaster Insurance Policy.
Suddenly raising chickens and building a well has shifted meaning to many, thanks to the bombardment of mystical-driven media mirroring our own paranoid tendencies followed by an ever-accumulating amount of evidence, which has ensured there has indeed been a cultural tipping point. Just not yet in the way the New Agers had been imagining. Instead of widespread enlightenment, the movement seems more to have inspired the shelter-digging mentality of my parent’s generation: Buy guns and ammo, stockpile canned goods and/or rediscover the significance of DENIAL. And/or find Jesus fast.
Maybe I’m just having flashbacks from grade school when we learned how to protect ourselves from nuclear attack with plywood desktops. Luckily I was then and am still well-suited to this sort of training, since it means interrupting monotony to whisper conspiratorially in dark corners. Handy Hubby and I are teaming up to ensure that all communal needs will be well-accounted for–we can provide a secure yet fun environment for a tribe of about twenty-as long as volcanic ash does not cover the sun so much as to disrupt our sweet potato crop and therefore stop our future production of bathtub spirits. If that happens, no one’s welcome.
Five years ago when we bought raw land here in the East Texas sticks, we were hauling in water, running power tools with a generator and sleeping in a tent. Being the gracious and supportive folks our friends and family mostly are, the collective consensus was typically one of barely-masked bewilderment, like when I joined the Peace Corps. Really? Are you s-u-r-e?
Sure or not, the connection between reality and perception is intrinsically linked. We attract what we envision, not because it’s some mystical secret only God can create, but because we ourselves in the process of envisioning automatically begin to create in that direction, that’s how we’re wired. It’s like evolution.
The world is talking tipping point. What does that mean? Thanks to many years of formal study I’ve devised a helpful formula: Surviving Armageddon will require the evolutionary process of Atonement + Alignment. That’s a synthesis of grade school math, Bible studies and self-help overkill.
Lately for survival I’ve needed a healthy daily dose of Conscious Evolution. I have to buy into the idea of a global awakening, if for no other reason than there’s really no where else to stand. Everywhere else is overcrowded with zombies it seems.
In any case, if you hold any hope of becoming part of my Shelltacular*-Armageddon-Surviving-Texas-Tribe, your best hope is useful skills. Since most of you don’t care to hunt and slaughter, and aren’t very good cooks, your second best shot at an invitation is to get seriously skilled at funny.
*On the short-list is my nephew Jackson, who after having been asked “What’s Aunt Shelle’s real name?” answered with an emphatic “Shelltacular!” (Maybe I forgot to mention on this zombie-free farm flattery is very close kin to funny.)