When the shit hits the fan, when the fat lady sings, the sperm hits the egg, the penis the vulva, when all is said and done, the bottom line reached, when the dreamer awakes – millennium 2K, Mayan calendar 2012, end-of-the-world, Armageddon, Peak Oil, when I’m speechless and stopp’d, when the last word has been said – when the world falls silent at last –

Who will be the first to speak?

Not Bush, Thatcher, Obama, Cameron, Gillard. Or Tony Abbott. Not Desmond Tu-Tu. Gadafi. Neither Clapton, Jagger, Lady Gaga nor Bono. No, –no –no!

Nor public figure from the right, neither the left, no “world leader”, not hippie guru, nor Oprah, Swarzennegger, Pitt nor Jolie – none of these will have a single word to say!

When the awesome silence descends, the pause will be like the moment the gloriously huge symphony orchestra runs out of written notes and the gap is filled with the memory of all they have just played, and with nothing, pure nothing/everything. It will be like those few white, unprinted pages at the end of the novel, where the plot goes everywhere and nowhere at once, where your mind hinges toward the next thing, and is at once unhinged. Neither past nor future. The nearest thing to this is perhaps: the orgasm. Where is Time, then?

But - the first-time orgasm! For this is the first time the world has thus ceased. Ceased to be. As if it ever was!! As if we ever believed its lies, sucked down its shit, bought its “goods”, sang its lonely song. For you, for me, we will never forget this moment, when time, and the world itself, stopped.

What then? Fumbling and stumbling our way out of our drug-induced sleep, we hear the news! The world is done! The tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart. A quote from somewhere. Quotes are done. From now on, there’ll be only the truly spoken word, if any. No more celebrities, we are all celebrating, celebrated. No more 6 o’clock news, everything is new. No more people in power, haves-and-have-nots, because we have everything, are everything. No more fear, because that’s what the world was.

At this moment of returning spring, fingers reach for a ukulele or flute, hands for seeds to plant, for chalk to draw, colours to paint, animals to caress, smiles to smile. Meals are prepared, feet dance, and swimmers dive into clear water. Nothing is impossible, for the gaze is not averted; music leaves its past behind, except for JS Bach and Oscar Petersen. Who can say? Even bodies appear different.


Gratitude comes up and stays awhile. Thankfulness, both specific and diffuse. Gladness, and joy, joy such as was forgotten, and unhoped for. Each one is perceived friend, and welcome. And faith speaks to this as the only future. Look not back.