After the Apocalypse (Reflections on the Present Crisis)

By Wayne Allensworth

I was waiting to pick up my order at a popular BBQ restaurant near my home on a weekend afternoon. It turned out to be quite an eye-opening experience. Or it would have been if I were shocked or surprised by anything these days. I found myself people-watching in a sort of weary, resigned fashion, as strange specimens of humanity made their way in and out of the place. At least the BBQ smelled good.

The first one to catch my eye was a chunky guy with a shaved head and tats all down his arms in baggy shorts, flip flops, and a black T-shirt with a depiction of Satan, horns and all, a pentagram, the works, and the words “Death Metal” inscribed in Gothic lettering across his back. “Death Metal?” Pornography went mainstream in this land a long time ago. It was about the time I started noticing parents with infants in their arms wearing tiny little T-shirts that read “Future porn star.” Now the Adversary himself is just as mainstream in a public sort of way, since he has never left us, as, say, Hannibal Lector. Like Colonel Kurtz, we have learned to make friends of horror and moral terror.

Then an obese woman in short shorts came in. She had a tattoo of a large face that looked vaguely like one of the characters from Planet of the Apes stretching across her vast right thigh. I’ve grown used to the characters who wear pajamas in public, and we got some of those, too.  Thank God, some normal looking people mixed in — whatever “normal” might mean any more — even a couple who looked like they might be real Texans. We few who remain.

I didn’t find that very reassuring, however. Nor were the exorbitant prices the place was asking for its food — it was very good, by the way — which weren’t quite at Weimar Germany inflation levels, but were a bit jarring, nonetheless. That sense of shock was reinforced when I noticed a message from a friend who was visiting California. “Why would anybody live here?,” he asked. He sent a picture of the gas pump near Sacramento. He had just filled up. It cost a hundred bucks. Meanwhile, I read that our always vigilant Congress, including most “conservatives,” had just passed a massive aid bill for Ukraine and Israel. One of these creatures complained that he was hearing gripes from his constituents about not protecting our own Southern border, and he boldly and forthrightly — and correctly, from a certain globocrat point of view — stated that Ukraine’s, not to mention Israel’s, border was “our” border. I’m sure he maintained what would have at one time been unironically called a “straight face” while lecturing his own constituents. Oh, and Donald Trump tacitly endorsed the “aid package” by keeping his silence and not pushing Republicans to vote “no.” Noting GOP support for the bill, The Washington Post crowed that Republicans are not fully aligned with any “America First” movement. Do tell.  

I picked up my order and got out of there. But, of course, there’s no place to go to escape this lunacy. And I live in one of the “reddest” big states in post-America. Or better still, Twilight Zone America. It’s twilight, dear readers, because the Apocalypse all those fund-raising candidates tell you will come if they are not elected has already happened, or, better still, is ongoing, with no end in sight. Yet so many of us go on pretending that the next election is critical, that “we” can turn the tide, and all will return to 1985 or 1955 or whatever your preferred dial-it-back landing spot might be. But it’s not going to happen. That horse has left the barn. That train has left the station. That ship has sailed.

We have been left at the dock, squinting and scanning the horizon as we vaguely recall the sail of the great ship that has sailed on into history.

A long time ago, I heard someone say that optimism was a childish disorder, and I’ve come to understand why that is so. Civilization is a fragile thing, and chaos is always lurking just below the surface of even the most stable and prosperous society. America’s problem is in no small part due to an Enlightenment sort of optimism that was baked into the cake from the start, and what passes for “conservatism” here was always sold to us with a big smile and lots of happy talk. Confidence is one thing, but Pollyanna optimism is dangerous. It’s one of the reasons the American Remnant has found it so difficult to even start thinking about its own survival and strategizing accordingly.

Thinking “outside of the box,” as management gurus once put it, is an acquired skill, even if one has a talent for it, because it always means telling people things they don’t want to hear. But the American Remnant will have to think in new ways if it wishes to survive in any kind of recognizable form. Speaking of survival, it doesn’t appear that my home state’s leadership will go for broke and openly defy Leviathan by arresting and deporting illegal aliens whatever some court says. Much less take all the other difficult steps necessary to preserve the dwindling numbers of its core population. So here we are.

Still, in taking stock of our situation, we should recall that people have managed to lead decent, fulfilling lives under all kinds of horrible conditions, under oppressive political systems and in extremely difficult circumstances. I myself have been blessed with good neighbors, a loving family, and the hope that comes with faith in something beyond ourselves. So far, despite all the bad news, we can live and let live and go on. Another grandchild has joined the fold. Outside, the sun is shining, and if we know what to look for and what to look at, a sense of reverence and awe can still elevate us. And who knows? Some unforeseen and totally unexpected turn of events may yet give us an opening. In the meantime, take care of your own. And do not fear facing the truth and making your loved ones aware of the situation we are in. Being aware of the nature of our dire predicament is an absolute necessity. Then go help a neighbor, take a walk, tell a joke, call a friend, read good books, pray, and let music lift your spirits. Be ready. The night is far spent, the day is at hand.

Chronicles contributor Wayne Allensworth is the author of  The Russian Question: Nationalism, Modernization, and Post-Communist Russia, and a novel, Field of Blood. 

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