Sunday evening: Out for a walk about eight miles away from where I live on the edge of town. The clouds of doom are gathering and you can hear the heavy hooves of the outriders of the apocalypse approaching.
They say the lockdown will end. But it will never end.
We are consigned to limbo for all eternity. The hounds of hell are upon heaven’s traces, as Algernon Charles Swinburne would have said. But he wasn’t stuck in a lockdown. He just had to worry about finding a big matronly woman to flagellate him.
We don’t have those problems. If you could locate a big matronly woman with a whip you’d have to pay her a lot of money to get within whipping distance of you. And even then, no amount of money might not buy her.
But we aren’t Swinburne and we don’t need that. If anything we need big Valkyrie women with sub machine guns and AK47s. Not to shoot at us with, but at the insidious governments and their foot soldiers.
In short we need a revolution and a bloody one at that. It’s the only way the establishment will learn.
And we don’t want to make the mistake Wat Tyler made as he was about to take London. The monarchy at the time sweet talked him with weasel words. Offered him a deal. And the fool was taken in and paid the price with his life.
No, we need to go in all guns blazing and not stop firing until every last one of the bastards is dead.
And only then, if it is our taste, we can find a matronly woman to whip us, until our back is bleeding from the heavy lashings.
But that is not my taste. It maybe yours. And I make no judgement about that. To each his own.
No. My taste is to sit outside as the sunsets, listening to the birds singing their very own evensong, and listen to the sweet southern voice of my Dark Angel as she chides me for my foreboding, gloomy predictions, insisting it will not happen that way, that all will be good with the world.
And I say, “All well and good, but for all your sweet talk, you’re the one with the damn AK-47 and you don’t mind using it as some poor unfortunate found out when he felt the cold heat of one of your shells hitting his leg.”
Well she had to concede that at least. She’s more gungho than Annie Oakley. And this is what you need in a woman, especially when you’re busy trying to figure out what’s coming next after the lockdown. You need a woman with an itchy trigger hand.
But what our next move is I don’t know. We are considering going on the run. And more than one person has described us as the post modern Bonnie and Clyde. But we’ll see. On balance I’d sooner hole up by the sea and ride this thing out. And so would she.
But maybe this mega meltdown will go with a whimper and not a bang.
Who knows. Not me.