Some people are fascinated by post-apocalyptic culture, but they don’t really want the world to end. Not most of them anyhow, thankfully. The thought of people being harmed or killed of the engines of society actually falling to pieces are horrifying. So, what then is the fantasy of barren landscapes and streets that have no name? What is alluring about people-less avenues and ruined earth?

I think it stems less from survivalist urges than from creative frustration, from people imagining a blank slate and what they could do with it. Knocking down a sand castle to creat a new and better one, if you will. Now some people can’t separate fantasy and reality. The composer Karl Stockhausen infamously called 9/11 the “greatest work of art.” Let’s hope that was the result of senility. Disaster movies were criticized at the time because they were supposedly providing a blueprint for terrorists. While the images we create can certainly influence others, I think it’s good we’ve continued to create art about our fantasies, even our dark ones. Nothing is as dangerous as a repressed society.

In a New York Times Opinion piece Bill Clegg links his own urges to witness disaster–the real kind, unfortunately–to his gradual descent into one of his own making. The opening:

“MY college roommates and I chased firetrucks.

We’d hear the sirens wail, hop in the car and tear off in the direction of the sound with the windows open, no matter how cold. We lived in a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland and there were many rickety old wooden buildings prime for fire, so there was always something going up in flames. Most of the time we’d chase the receding sound, sniff for smoke as we passed a joint between us, scan the side streets for signs of catastrophe and after a while call it quits and go home.

Once, just once that I can remember, we saw the kind of fire we’d been after. An old many-shuttered thing with flames licking from every inch. We pulled up seconds after the firetrucks. We got out of the car and from across the street felt great waves of heat coming off the place. It popped and cracked and roared out of control and we stood, mesmerized.

A ballet of sparks in the air made magic above the chaos. People were everywhere, standing around watching the roof collapse and the tops of nearby trees catch fire. No one spoke. We stayed for hours. Each time we moved away some part of the house threatened to collapse; we knew we were stuck, that we had somehow contracted to see it through to the very end, until the last charred beam had fallen and all that was left was a smoldering, ashy ruin.”