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In these pandemic days, I find it easy to fall into an apocalyptic frame of mind. What if all those dystopian sci-fi movies about alien invasions are simply coming true, and the coronavirus is just a very special sort of alien? What if this was the plan all along: That we'd populate the world with suitable hosts, only to make ready for the Second Coming of the Microscopic Invaders?
In 1991, Elvis Costello proved eerily prescient in this track from the album Mighty Like a Rose, with a machine-gun patter of half-explained references and darkly insinuating imagery.
It's paranoid as hell -- "The man in the corner of this picture has a sinister purpose" -- with an insistent drum beat, minor key, and cacophonous background instrumentation. The focus is squarely on the observer: "Wake up zombie, write yourself another book," exhorting him/her/you/me "You want to scream and shout my little flaxen lout" ("waxen lout"/ "Saxon lout" in successive verses). And always that urgent refrain: "Hurry down Doomsday, the bugs are taking over."
You want End of Times? We'll give you End of Times in the middle eight:
Forget about Beethoven, Rembrandt and rock and roll
Forget about Mickey Mouse, Marlboro and Coca Cola
Forget about Cadillac, Mercedes and Toyota
Forget about Buddha, Allah, Jesus and Jehovah
In other words, WIPE THAT SLATE CLEAN.
Years ago -- 1977 -- I had a dream that Doomsday was coming. I was living in England at the time, doing grad school, but the dream was a full-on reenactment of the civil defense drills of my Indianapolis grade school. (Duck and cover, run for the fallout shelter, because the Soviet Union is going to bomb us out of existence.) In my dream, the BBC issued a "kiss your asses goodbye" alert. Why on earth the USSR would be bombing the UK in 1977, I didn't stop to question. Dream Me felt 100% certain that this was The End.
So what did I do in my dream?
I went for a walk among the Victorian streets of North Oxford, enjoying the spring blossoms on the trees, the birds twittering in the trees, the whole English at-last-winter-is-over gratitude. And I felt the weight lifting off my shoulders. That essay on Samuel Richardson that my tutor was waiting for? No need to write it at all. The do-or-die exams looming three months away? No need to study for them. The terrifying question of finding a job once I had my degree? Oh, honey, neither you nor the jobs will be here in a few hours.
And as I walked around in my dream, I felt so free, so relaxed, so relieved. So what if I never got my dream job? So what if I never married and had kids? So what if I never wrote the book that would be read for generations? None of it mattered. I was going to die in an hour or so -- so PFFFT!
I've never forgotten that extraordinary sense of peace.
And if the coronavirus comes for me now -- if the bugs truly are taking over -- let's just hope I can meet the Doomsday bugs with that same grace.
Stay safe, wear that face mask, be well.
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