Before it was retitled Future Events, our new book had been called “The New York Prophecy.”
One scenario for future purifications around the globe was the seismic aspect, including in America’s largest city.
An excerpt:
And New York?
It took little research to learn that a very major geophysical event could indeed afflict the city, and not just in the way of a tsunami. No: buildings could actually topple – find themselves horizontal — from a shaking underneath Manhattan itself or due to riven areas to the immediate north and west.
While one rarely thought of the “Big Apple” as prone to seismicity, faults ran not only alongside the city (for example, at the New Jersey Palisades along the Hudson, so visible from the George Washington Bridge), but also directly under Manhattan.
Sodom. Babylon. Throw in Pergamon.
New York was an amalgam.
Miles below the surface, one fracture ran from the Rockaways to Manhattan, splitting north and south around Murray Hill or a bit north.
The latter would place it on the East Side precisely in midtown not far from St. Patrick’s Cathedral and perhaps a bit southwest to Tribeca.
The financial district?
Slashing diagonally, faults ran from the Brooklyn Bridge to Hell’s Kitchen and from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to the southwestern corner of Central Park: under the feet of millions.
If those were ever triggered, the destruction would be as obvious as it was unspeakable.
Another fault was thought to be near Forty-Ninth Street where the bronze statue of Atlas stood as if defying the spires of the cathedral and as if it – Apollo, not God – held up the cosmos.
A single small fault could topple towers and collapse water mains, sewage, power lines, tunnels, subways: forty billion in damages, at minimum. Power lines, the pulsing neural network of civilization, falling prey to this apocalyptic malady. The once vibrant hum of electricity snuffed out, replaced by a chilling silence that roars louder than any explosion. Darkness, an unwelcome guest, creeping in, a blanket of oblivion smothering the city’s pulse. It would be a testament to our hubris, a stark reminder of the delicate threads upon which our towers are built and upon which they perilously stand.
Would the Lincoln Tunnel survive? The Holland?
Counting subways, there were two thousand tunnels and bridges in the City. One could but gasp at the crumpled steel, the contorted girders, the waterways clogged with what once seemed imperishable. If they collapsed, millions would find Manhattan a stone-cold debris-piled prison yard, silent but for pleas. The toll from covid had been chalked at 45,000 — more than thirty-eight times New York loss on September 11 — and if the curve continued the same ascent, if 45,000 were multiplied by another thirty-eight, it would be – God forbid — 1.7 million.
In the silence, a voice. Is it the Lord — as the anonymous locutionist believes? “I will come in the simplicity of ruins, when no light shines but mine. In the outer reaches of the world will be seen the power of goodness itself, which illuminates according to the good within. Those of darkness will find the pain of truth, for in them will the Light cast but shadows. In this truth will be the destructions of men and Man, in the throes of destruction and persecution, which will lead the righteous to promised lands. Go where the heart finds not riches but the sustenance of God, Who watches all things and will control the smallest eventualities. The rumbling of the time will reflect movement in the foundations of the earth, which will rock with woe. Go where the heart hears goodness and the spirit connects to what is eternal power.”
The harbingers — often the case — were there. When Hurricane Sandy hit New York, walkers-by recorded uncanny sounds as air whistled and groaned and roared through the beams of iron of the Freedom Tower, which was under erection. The wind, an omnipresent phantom, sang in an eerie chorus that filled the corridors of Lower Manhattan with disconcerting song as it poured through the nascent skeleton of the edifice: keening whispers, mournful groans, and commanding roars from the iron girders that stood in its path. And so, the Freedom Tower reverberated with spectral song that would forever echo in the hearts of those who bore witness to it. Yet, as anyone with the measuring stick of history knew, this was nothing next to what could descend.
Might hints of what “next could descend” be found half a mile from One World Trade Center at a strange windowless datacenter rising 550 feet at 33 Thomas Street, built in 1974 and long rumored to have secret hallways originally constructed without glass to withstand proximity from a nearby nuclear blast? Is that why it’s devoid of windows?
In the intricate folds of time is no coincidence. There is cosmic embroidery, a design we can’t fathom through worldly blinders, here in the “earth zone,” like looking at the bottom of needlepoint and seeing only knots: It only makes sense, forms beauty, when viewed — as will be the case when we die — from above.
[resources: Future Events]
+
