The Lightest Object in the Universe, by Kimi Eisele, came out last July, but seems prescient, this July. In both the 2019 novel and the 2020 reality, the country has been devastated by a pandemic coupled with an economic collapse. Mind you, in the book, both pandemic and crash are even worse than what we’re experiencing now: a deadly flu kills people of all ages, and the collapse takes the power companies with it — and nobody seems to have the funds to get the power grid up and running again.
Like all good post-apocalyptic novels, there’s a road trip, gangs of marauding ruffians, and, of course, a charismatic cult leader. But here’s the twist: it’s a feel-good post-apocalyptic novel. Carson, in New York, decides to set out to find his beloved, Beatrix, in San Francisco. Between them is a vast expanse of what the coastal people believe is a wasteland (in this respect, not much has changed). Beatrix has decided to stay put rather than bug out, because the people in her neighborhood are making-do. They’ve put together what writer Rebecca Solnit calls a “disaster utopia”: the phenomenon in which, after a disaster, people seem spontaneously to pull together to make things liveable. Solnit, in her 2009 book, A Paradise Built in Hell, presents a number of historical case studies, from the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire to Hurricane Katrina, to show examples of communities regrouping from the bottom up, after the old dependable structures of life have been wiped out. They set up soup kitchens, housing, and a variety of other necessities, despite governments or NGOs that are nowhere in sight (or who are doing more harm than good). In Elmslie’s novel, Beatrix’ neighbors have community gardens, herbal medicines, a dump that is a kind of ongoing rummage sale, a bicycle delivery and messenger service, a makeshift radio station, and, yes, security patrols. It ain’t great, but it’s bearable. And there’s a genuine feeling of caring and community solidarity among the neighbors. This semi-utopia (quasitopia?) is contrasted with that founded by charismatic preacher Jonathan Blue, who draws people to his heaven-on-earth (not) by pummeling the airwaves with continuous broadcasted invitations to come to “the Center” (I’m tellin ya, it’s a wasteland out there . . .). Many accept, given their newly-miserable post-electric lives. I lived through both the Loma Prieta Earthquake and the Oakland Firestorm — in . . . what was it? . . . the late 80s? (naw -- that long ago??). After each catastrophe, people were exceptionally nice to one another and seemed to feel much more at ease around strangers of different races and classes. This lasted a few weeks. Then everything was pretty much back where it was, for those who were still alive and solvent. Granted, neither one completely destroyed the infrastructure of the entire country or even region. But that experience does make me wonder if things would play out the same way, were the disaster to be a protracted one. Indeed, the current disaster is getting pretty protracted, and I don’t get the sense of most Americans pulling together. I live in a college town with a lot of educated people, and the vast majority of the population comply with mandates to wear masks, physically distance, etc. In the biggest city in the state, that’s not the case: mask-wearing there, as in the state in general, has become a sign of political affiliation and identity. Some assert their personal freedumb, even as it imperils their fellow citizens. And anyway, physical distance does not lend itself to social closeness. (. . . to be continued Tuesday, July 28 . . .)
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |