Eight Oh Seven

   True colours do begin to show. In the absence of any organizing influence, the rebellion latent — and obvious to only a few observant — in so many rises like a green film to the surface of life.
   Man in general is not a civilized being, and has not been for almost one hundred years. The days of gaslamps and hansoms and the last of the steamships were man’s last days of full and true civilization. Now civilization is provided for — or hung upon — the many by the few.
   Few there be who still know what consitutes actual civility. To most it is in this chimera of electric lights and Roman running water and then that fifth of the simple machines, the internal combustion engine. Deprived of these that separate most men from the animals, they swing from trees.
   Clothing becomes at best a somehow-still-necessary annoyance and at worst illogical and optional. Crisp and trim dormitories take on the look of Manhattan slum apartments with unwashed clothes hanging from the windows to dry the sweat. An awful din of cleanup from the Czar’s^† violent visit thickens the air with chainsaws, chippers, and pressure washers; and the utterly non-sophisticates (revealed by their now loosely-regulated dress) make my campus — my den of sophistication — look like downtown Gary, Indiana.
   Houses bisected by hurricanes happen: there is nothing unconquerable about such damage. Trees will be uprooted — testimony to their foolish stand against the inevitable. A diadem of roots shading where I stand bodes no ill at all.
   The clock stopped. Windows can be deglazed, and fenestrated storeys boarded over, and still I would not breather “savagery”. But for days, imposingly erect and yet unlit, the tower has read “eight oh seven”.
   Eight oh seven is when civilization ceased as an imposition upon savagery. Eight oh seven, two mornings ago. How Golding is proven, even in macrocosm^◊ and two days’ time! Eight oh seven, and all is not well.

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† This is in reference to Hurricane Ivan. The Czar has deprived most of Pensacola, Florida of water and power.
◊ William Golding, author of Lord of the Flies. LOTF was set among a small group of boys on a deserted island: a microcosm of society (sans restraint).

Crosspost: Scraps and Academic Musings