“ I was in a house in a valley. It was raining heavily. I went out to the terrace and could see a dark black tornado formation in the sky. I could also hear children’s voices, but I could not see them. The voices sounded distant, as if coming from across water or through fog. I was worried, and started to frantically search for them, but they were nowhere to be found. I was exhausted and could feel the wind spinning around me. I thought I would surely perish, but as I looked up to the sky I saw a beautiful angel floating before me. His eyes were jewels. I stretched out my hand and just as I was about to touch him, I woke up.
I have carried this with me for almost 30 years.
This dream, more real than anything else I have experienced in my life.”
The leaves on the trees beneath us sway gently, the hills beyond them somehow resembling the past more than the future. And all around us the night pours in, as if it is one thing and not many. Impenetrable and complete, with or without us.
The light flickers again and somebody makes a joke about a spirit trying to contact us and everybody laughs but still, there is something brittle in the laughter. Everything is softening at this hour and it’s easy enough to imagine a soul loosening itself from the body. People start to tell stories of the supernatural. Tales of coincidence and premonition. Angels and ghosts. Messages in dreams. All these encounters and intuitions unresolved. And when the last story had been told, we sit quietly, goose-fleshed and knowing nothing. All so small beneath the night and the just-glimpsed shooting star above, a luminous proof sent to us from distances and realms unknown.
Sitting on the sidewalk between the mailbox and garbage can was a man selling pens. He wore a red ‘Fly Emirates’ hat, had a distended tongue that protruded through his mouth, a tracheotomy tube sticking out of his throat and loosely bandaged hands. He was so low to the ground and positioned in such a way that it was difficult to tell if he had legs or not, and he gave the appearance of some wax creation melting into the grey concrete.
A chopper sounded unseen in the sky above, likely landing on the roof of the Children’s Hospital right around the corner. Somebody, all sorts of people even, were in the midst of the worst, most unimaginable day of their lives.
A handsome business man with an immaculately trimmed beard strode by as if on a catwalk. Standing about 6’3, he was resplendent in a perfectly fitted suit that he’d accented with a pair of beautiful Italian shoes and a pocket square. He spoke calmly into his phone as if he was in control and absolutely everything was going exactly as planned.
Walking toward him was a blonde woman who was just as thin as a blade. She was concentrating so hard on looking unattainable she seemed angry, like she was off to eliminate an enemy. Dressed expensively, she was so deeply articulated by fashion that it was hard to imagine anything existing beyond exterior. Behind sunglasses and confident on high heels, as inky as a shadow she smoked–an image to be captured rather than a person to be spoken to.
It seemed that these two people, these two vectors of power and beauty, had been moving their entire lives toward this moment of collision, but they passed without incident or plot, and the man selling pens on the street beneath their indifferent gazes cast such a stark contrast as to feel like a biblical thunderbolt.
Moving his mouth to no effect, he held out a pen to everybody who passed, but nobody stopped or even noticed him. Not a single person. He was beneath their sight line, both figuratively and literally, and may as well have been living in a completely different world.
A woman on crutches was standing near him. You could tell that she wasn’t sick– that she’d just had a minor accident and was still living in one world and not the other. But still, she was angry. She might have been angry about a lot of things. She was limping about very dramatically, exaggerating, exasperated that that the cab stand was 20 meters away. The beggar, wordless and unseen, waved a car over for her, and as one materialized, she limped furiously past, never noticing the blessings of the saint kneeling before her.
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Rachelle: Is everything okay?
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: Well, I don’t know why Netflix would be down.
Rachelle: But you’ve already seen Making a Murderer three times.
Rachelle: Yes, your thirst for justice is unusually obsessive.
Rachelle: No, strong. I wrote strong.
Rachelle: Must have been autocorrect.
Rachelle: Well, you’ll just have to be be brave, my love, I’m sure Netflix will be up and running soon and you can return to your Making a Murderer studies.
Rachelle: But tell me, how is Jones doing?!
Rachelle: Oh, he’s such a strong, little boy!
Rachelle: Well, you can’t take your eyes off him, you really can’t.
Rachelle: You should always be looking for his left.
Rachelle: Look, he always hits you with his left first. It’s his plan.
Rachelle: It’s not a dirty plan. He’s just a sweet, playful little boy!
Rachelle: So, just so you remember: The left comes first. And then when you’re dazed and trying to put your glasses back on, he will hit you with the right and then start kicking. Both feet. Every time, Pickle. You have to prepare for it.
Rachelle: I know he thinks it’s funny.
Rachelle: Well, I disagree, sometimes a bleeding nose can be very funny.
Rachelle: I know you get nose bleeds from the blood-thinning medication you’re on.
Rachelle: Sure. It’s not because Jones is stronger than you.
Rachelle: Yes, it is entirely possible you could still take Jones in a fight, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
Rachelle: He has muscle definition in his back. Do you?
Rachelle: So, he’s sleeping now then?
Rachelle: And you fed and changed him?
Rachelle: What does he look like sleeping? Does he look like an angel?
Rachelle: I don’t believe you’re in his room.
Rachelle: I think you just made that up.
Rachelle: He’s not talking in his sleep.
Rachelle: Send me a photograph of him sleeping.
Rachelle: Oh, you’re very clever.
Rachelle: I know you got over 130 on an online IQ test.
Rachelle: Pickle, you tell people you meet at parties that. You tell everybody that.
Rachelle: Yes, you are a genius, yet you still can’t drive or hold down a job. It’s fascinating, that.
Rachelle: Yes, the wildly misunderstood genius community is subject to a lot of bullying.
Rachelle: You’d think all those geniuses would be able to band together and cast a spell, but I guess I just don’t understand how genius works.
Rachelle: What?
Rachelle: Jesus.
Rachelle: Look, there is no way that Jones’ Exersaucer is haunted.
Rachelle: Yes.
Rachelle: It is creepy that it plays music of it’s own accord, and only when you’re in the room, but I don’t think it means it’s the Exersaucer of a dead child.
Rachelle: Well, no.
Rachelle: I don’t know the history of the Exersaucer.
Rachelle: Yes, I did buy it used.
Rachelle: Yes, so in theory it could have been sold by a grieving family that lost their child to a possessed and murderous Exersaucer.
Rachelle: I must say, watching Making a Murderer so obsessively really has really made you a better lawyer.
Rachelle: Netflix is back up, isn’t it?
Rachelle: I thought so.
Rachelle: Just don’t watch the horror stuff, okay?
Rachelle: It’s not good for you. Your doctors said so.
Rachelle: No, your doctors do understand genius.
Rachelle: Look, just throw a blanket over the Exersaucer if its scaring you!
Rachelle: Okay.
Rachelle: I will be back in about half an hour. You wanted the low sodium Triscuits, right?
Rachelle: Yes, I got it, LOW SODIUM.
Rachelle: Love you, see you and Jones soon, you’re doing great! xoxo
]]>Being generous and broad of heart, Rachelle has given access to our account to members of her family so that they can piggyback on our subscription and not have to pay to use the service.
What follows are the texts I received from my wife when I brought up the subject last week:
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Rachelle: Oh, if it says the account is already in use when you try to watch, it means that someone in my family is probably watching.
Rachelle: We gave them access to our Netflix, remember?
Rachelle: Look, they do a MILLION things for us, you can just wait half an hour before you watch Arrow, okay?
Rachelle: I know you relate to the lead in Arrow. I know.
Rachelle: Yes, you got an arrow in your foot when you were a boy and ever since things have “changed.”
Rachelle: Of course, of course, it was certainly life-defining when you encountered a practice arrow that bounced harmlessly off your foot!
Rachelle: Must have been like meeting Bigfoot or seeing an angel!
Rachelle: Look, I’m not diminishing the arrow-harmlessly-bouncing-off-your-foot experience.
Rachelle: I know it doesn’t have to draw blood to hurt, or to alter the course of a young boy’s life.
Rachelle: I’m not mocking you.
Rachelle: Okay, yes, of course I’m mocking you!
Rachelle: Lordy, you can really be difficult, you know?
Rachelle: I know you REALLY love the show.
Rachelle: But honey, you’re unemployed and can watch it anytime you like.
Rachelle: Okay, I guess you can’t watch it when somebody else is using our account.
Rachelle: Yes, sure, game, set and match to Michael “Destiny’s Arrow” Murray.
Rachelle: And yes, I know that your fantasy baseball team is named “Destiny’s Arrow” to honour this pivotal moment in your life.
Rachelle: Leeches???
Rachelle: Are you really calling my family, the family that does so many kind and thoughtful things for us, leeches?
Rachelle: Un-fucking-believable.
Rachelle: Remember when my dad drove all the way down to Toronto from Alliston because you couldn’t open the patio table parasol?
Rachelle: Or when my mother typed out 150 pages of your Fantasy novel—Destiny’s Arrow–because you thought you might have a variation of carpal tunnel syndrome?
Rachelle: No, I don’t think autocorrect changed Peaches to leeches.
Rachelle: I simply do not believe you.
Rachelle: I think that you’re lying to me.
Rachelle: Yes, I think you lie all of the time.
Rachelle: Really?
Rachelle: Well, when we met and you said you didn’t have any “emotional baggage.”
Rachelle: When you said you were 5’9, that was another lie.
Rachelle: That you were good at sports.
Rachelle: Do you want me to go on?
Rachelle: Look, if you send my parent’s a bill for $3.50 each month, “so that they can carry their own weight,” I will kill you in your loud, nauseating, snoring sleep.
Rachelle: Be back from work around 7:30, please be dressed this time.
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This creature has voice-recognition software that will allow the doll to “listen” to children speak and give chatty, informed responses. Hello Barbie is WiFi connected and via an embedded microphone, records what the child playing with it says. The recording then travels over the Web to the Mattel super cloud where the words are recognized and parsed, with that information then being used to formulate the doll’s response.
People are very concerned about privacy, worried that the information could be misused by Mattel for marketing purposes, or hacked into by the NSA or other malicious, information-seeking entities. The Beta run of the doll was not without controversy, and many families reported that their children had unusual experiences with their Hello Barbie.
Aziz, age 6:
Aziz: “My favourite animal is a dog!”
Hello Barbie: “Some people think Americans are Imperialist dogs, does your family think that Aziz?”
Aziz: “My family won’t let me get a dog!”
Hello Barbie: “Your family hates America and her freedoms, Aziz, that’s why they hate dogs! It is your duty to inform on them, all the cool girls are doing it! Do you like my shirt? It’s very expensive!
Jahida, age 5:
Jahida: “What are you going to be for Halloween?”
Hello Barbie: “ A proud American!”
Jahida: “You’re funny, Barbie! I like you!”
Hello Barbie: “I like you, too, Jahida, it’s too bad you and your religion make Jesus cry.”
Fahima, age 7:
Fahima: “I hate Cindy. She’s a bully and always makes fun of my hair!”
Hello Barbie: “I hate terrorists!”
Fahima: “What’s a terrorist?”
Hello Barbie: “Oh, a terrorist is very bad person!
Fahima: “I don’t like bad people!”
Hello Barbie: “Did you know that I can take photographs with my pretty eyes that go up to space and talk to angels? The angels understand what my pretty eyes have seen, and then they fly over the terrorist and drop holy fire on him! The terrorists are such evil, freedom-hating people, that if you ever hear about where any of them are, even your Uncle Maru’deen who lives in Pakistan, you should tell Hello Barbie, and then Hello Barbie will talk to an angel about Cindy! I like Taylor Swift, do you?
Shalimar, age 6:
Shalimar: “What’s your favourite colour?”
Hello Barbie: “It’s hard to choose between red, white and blue, but I think it would be white!”
Shalimar: “Like you, you’re white!”
Hello Barbie: “That’s right, like America, a white, Christian nation!”
Shalimar: “Oh.”
Hello Barbie: “ Do you like my hair?”
Shalimar: “ Yeah.”
Hello Barbie: “Me, too.”
Shalimar: “What’s your favourite food?”
Hello Barbie: “ I love barbecue potato chips! What about you?”
Shalimar: “My mom’s hummus, I think, but also cookies.”
Hello Barbie: “Hummus isn’t a real food. “
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When one of them reached up to the overhead compartment she modestly held her top down so as not to expose any flesh above her waist. She looked so very young, almost like a doll. She passed the time by watching videos, her face a shifting map of unfiltered responses, each one blossoming and becoming a kind of sunlight that illuminated her face.
The other one had short hair and the fleshy round face of a Buddha. She asked her friend to put some drops in her eyes, and one of them missed the mark, forming a tear just below her eye where it stayed unattended, as if a moment of sorrow now suspended in time. She was perfectly impassive, and as she sat there staring out the window her eyes grew heavier and heavier. Dazed and almost given to sleep, she seemed in a dimensional fog, just flickering in the limbo of this world, and capable at any moment of becoming more spirit than person and simply floating away.
I was listening to Sigur Ros on my headphones and it all felt like a movie, everything holy and beautiful, as if present only for my attention. Outside, as snow fell, farmlands, retreating forests and tiny homes sped past, more like memories than the architecture of the world. It felt profound, somehow, and then out of the camouflage and dull wash of scrub, a deer stepped from invisibility, so suddenly and magnificently manifest that it could only have been an angel.
Me: Feeling good today, very confident!
Me: You’re right, my Mindful Meditation session did go really well!
Me: Meditated the shit out of it! I was fucking Deerpark Chopra!
Me: No, I think it is Deerpark.
Me: Really?
Me: Deepak? That doesn’t sound like a name at all, more like a company that makes boxes or something.
Me: I don’t believe you.
Me: I’m going to look it up.
Me: Okay.
Me: Yes.
Me: I guess it is kind of amusing that I could get the last name right but still butcher the first name in such a “child-like” and “ challenged” way.
Me: I’m still going to call him Deerpark though.
Me: No, not stubborn, whimsical and playful. Like an otter.
Me: I also went to my first lymphatic massage session!
Me: Well, they tap your face.
Me: And yeah, that drains your lymph glands. Yes, by tapping.
Me: $200
Me: No, they didn’t wear diamond-encrusted gloves while doing the tapping.
Me: No, it wasn’t a topless lymphatic massage, either.
Me: Well, the happy ending is that my lymph glands are draining!
Me: I thought your insurance covered it!
Me: Fuck.
Me: Well, there are only 7 more sessions.
Me: Look, having drained lymph glands is important.
Me: At least as important as your “Power Skating” classes with Pierre. I mean, 3 times a week??
Me: I don’t trust Pierre, don’t believe he played in the NHL.
Me: Also don’t like the way you laugh around him.
Me: No, of course I trust you, my love.
Me: I’m at the Dark Horse Café now.
Me: Decaffeinated green tea, gangster style.
Me: Nowhere to sit in here.
Me: Woman says she’s holding last chair for a friend.
Me: Says she will be there in 5 minutes.
Me: Dazzling smile. Entirely distracting. Have forgotten why I was talking to her.
Me: I wish she did lymphatic massage.
Me: I’ll send you a picture.
Me: Really? Creepy and inappropriate?
Me: On every level? Really?
Me: You’re really weird, you know that?
Me: Okay, 12 minutes have passed now and her friend still hasn’t shown up. I’m going to say something.
Me: I wonder if she’s a model?
Me: Okay, it’s been over 20 minutes! I’m going to give her a piece of my mind!
Me: Her beauty doesn’t entitle her to anything!
Me: You’re right, she is exactly like that Leprechaun guy on the TTC!!
Me: Only radiant and if the Leprechaun were made out of sunlight.
Me: Like Pierre, you said he’s made of light, and what did you say, “thigh muscles,” didn’t you?
Me: I WILL SAY SOMETHING!
Me: I AM NOT A SLAVE TO BEAUTY!
Me: (Except yours, my love)
Me: Ok, here I go.
Me: Losing my resolve. Think it’s melting. Standing with tea is fine.
Me: Hemingway wrote standing up.
Me: Her laptop bag deserves seat in crowded coffee shop.
Me: Laptop bag like a holy relic.
Me: Friend just floated in like a beautiful perfume.
Me: Think Pierre emerging from a spray of ice chips.
Me: Such beauty, should be a cover charge here.
Me: They are now talking together, as angels do.
Me: All is sunlight.
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Dear Dragon:
There is this guy in Cell Block D who looks amazing in orange and I really want him to be my bitch, but MS-13 have claimed him. I really don’t have the muscle behind me to take him, and I can’t buy him, either, but I really think we might be in love, any suggestions?
Cellmate 2563514
You are an angel for love, man! A dark angel, made of fire and blood and lust, like all your ancestors before you! Your body is only a vessel and it means nothing, and so you must give your body to the MS-13 so that you may give your soul to your bitch. The MS-13 will take you as their flesh-lover, and in return they will give you your paramour. If this fails, orchestrate their murders and eliminate the gang so that you can have Looks-Amazing-In-Orange all to yourself!
Dear Dragon:
I’m doing life for a triple homicide and feeling really lonely. Sometimes I worry that I missed my opportunity and that maybe love has passed me by. I’m a little bit shy, except when I’m angry or on Meth, and I have trouble socializing with the other inmates. Can you offer me any advice on how to find love before it’s too late?
Cellmate 7836102
Well, the gym is an awfully good place to showcase your earthly body and mingle with all the other guys. I’ve seen a lot of romances blossom, some very immediately and very intensely, in the gym yard, and it’s a beautiful, violent and loving thing to witness, man. If working out isn’t your bag, though, I’d suggest meeting people through Movie Night or Bible Study, and if that doesn’t work, perhaps you should orchestrate the murder of several inmates in order to highlight your virility and mystical powers over the conformist world around you.
Dear Dragon:
My cellmate keeps raping me. I’ve wanted to break up with him for months now, but then he always does something sweet, like spit on my lawyer or cut himself because he loves me. This, of course, just pulls me right back in and then he just continues raping me again. What can I do?
Cellmate 6680348
You need to express your feelings to him, Cellmate 6680348! You have to let him know that it hurts your heart and damages your self-esteem when he rapes you. It might just be that he has always been a rapist and doesn’t know that in some cases it isn’t the best way to express love, but if he doesn’t respect you on this it’s time for a conscious uncoupling and you must orchestrate his bloody murder.
