Blogging has again been pushed to the back burner – by necessity, not choice. I have so many ideas, at least three posts in my draft boxes at various stages of completion, but too many obligations to attend to, first : looming work deadline, children’s homework (I do need to write a series of posts about our experiences dealing with international schools, some day. So much to say!), end of school year’s flurry of activities and events. AND a system that requires a minimum of eight hours of sleep at night in order to function. My writing, whether it’s working on my novel, picture books, or blogging, cannot compete… and it does not make me happy.
But I digress.
I have been reading about the end of the world for a few days, mostly smiling (in a slightly deprecating manner), with some rolling of the eyes, basically waiting for May 21 to run its course, for all the silliness to die, and for life to go on without any more undue attention paid to such nonsense.
That is, until one of our nieces, a bright, spunky, opinionated teenager, sent us a message last night, inquiring about the possible return of Jesus. She had smartly figured out that we are ten hours ahead of the Western world, and therefore, if all this talk of “Rapture” and what not was to be believed, we should have seen some manifestation of it.
This is where I stop smiling, and start getting irritated. Very. Irritated. What is this world – a world which is not ending, as far as I know, nor receiving the visit of Jesus (although I believe I saw something recently about some people in New Zealand, was it, pretending to be Jesus) – to do about all the self-professed in-the-known nuts, out there, who think they can spread apocalyptic messages… for what? Assuage their neurotic anxieties by getting others to share them so they don’t feel so alone? Get a power kick out of playing with the minds of impressionable people? Their fifteen minutes (or days, or weeks, maybe even months and years, in some cases) of celebrity?
Des claques, as we say in French. And a few well-aimed coups de pied aux fesses, too. But even that feels too lenient for all the ruckus these people create.