There is a bit of a holiday atmosphere in New Brunswick today, though one of those more trepid holidays whose outcome is uncertain. More like the speech to be given by a new and unpredictable leader than the trotting out of an old tired routine that carries on year to year. This sense is augmented by the presence and infusion of thousands of new young students just arriving at the campus, students whose memories of coming to college will be as much dominated by Hurricane Irene as the class of 2005’s were by 9/11.
One can just start to feel it, the last couple hours, the burgeoning clouds harbinging the dark bands of green, yellow, red, pink to follow. One has to wonder what hurricanes were like before the advent of Doppler and schools of meteorology, how well attuned or not human beings were to the little clues in the sky and the air that whisper to take cover, to barricade, to hole up. Surely most birds and squirrels survive hurricane-force winds and the foot or so of rain we’re expected to get, so it’s possible within all of us to detect what’s on the horizon. Earthquakes, like the one last week, perhaps less so, though there’s much documentation of animalian recourse in such events. One has to wonder how much of our inner eye we shut down by maintaining so many optical and audial distractions, the bells and whistles of the entertainment culture.
I’m riding it out here, twenty-some miles inland and well uphill on the banks of the old Raritan. There’s entirely too much glass on the fringes of this apartment, but all of it is at least somewhat shielded and staying here will help me move stuff out of the way of any wind and rain that lobbies a tree branch or other debris to help it get in. I have to admit to a certain giddy fascination with what it’ll be like to pass time in or near the eye of such a storm, recalling childhood evenings staying up late to watch coverage of storms battering Florida and feeling the precipice of Earth’s ultimate dictation over its most hubristic species. The camera is poised as well, just in case there’s any dramatic footage to be gleaned – footage that will almost certainly have to wait a couple days to see the Internet since no one expects power to run through the circuits here for a day or two amidst Irene.
Even with all the modern technology, technology that (it should be noted) was developed by and for governments and in spite of capitalism, we can’t ever predict exactly where a hurricane will go. It’s always possible it floats a bit out to sea, possible it jams inland and gives us mostly a miss. And indeed that minor variability reflects that larger variability of the circumstances of life itself, how little control we have over the minute bounces and rolls that end up making such a difference. Where I choose to park today could be a matter of inches between the Prius ending up under a whomping willow or unscathed but for being strewn with a handful of wet leaves. Slight calculations or guess can be made, the same speculation we approach any decision or choice with, convincing ourselves we have far more information and security about the future than we ever do. Perhaps events of nature are exciting not only because they remind us how fragile we are in the face of larger forces, but especially because undetermined outcomes open the conduits to possibility and remind us, perhaps paradoxically, how much freedom we really could exert if we just opened our minds.
Ultimately, though, the storm’s greatest volatility could come from people themselves. As the trappings of normal society start to go on hiatus, the ramping up of fear and uncertainty with undoubtedly impact different people in different ways. A direct hit on New York City is hard to contemplate. Were the skyscrapers of Manhattan built for hurricane forces? And even if so, how good or serious were such calculations and preparations? And if the sky fell, how much do we trust New Yorkers to keep their feet on the ground?
Ultimately, the storm is a potentially lonely experience. Riding it out solo in a big apartment, facing potential shortages of all trappings of modernity (water, power, communication), one can simulate a personal apocalypse of isolation for a day or two depending on how those small bounces go. It’s possible all of this will be, in a word, overblown, but events like this at least offer the pause to contemplate much time alone in the face of swirling outside unknowns. Which, like the rest of it, is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. But all parts, in all ways, a useful reminder about where one’s individual life fits in to the larger scope of the winds of change that howl for us all.
