In it, I am wearing a costume that is clearly racist and offensive.

This picture was taken from a Christmas Assembly at Lisgar Collegiate in Ottawa, Ontario, and I was performing a rap as an “urban Santa.” Although I was not in black face as some have asserted, my family and I had just returned from a vacation in Hawaii and I had a very uncharacteristic tan. I am deeply apologetic for that triggering tan, the privilege that implies, and for my blatant cultural appropriation.

It is also true that I wrote, “I HAVE ALWAYS HAD A CRAZY CRUSH ON YOU!! in Marie-Therese Vitzhum’s yearbook in 1983. I am deeply embarrassed by my insensitivity to my brothers and sisters who struggle with mental illness. After finishing in the bottom third of the standings in a fantasy hockey league two years ago, I, too, fell into a depression, so I need you to know you have an ally in Michael Murray, not an enemy.

I love you.
I hear you.
And I am listening.

These past behaviours of mine are not in keeping with who I am today or the values I have fought for throughout my career as Commissioner of the Dirty Pigeon Fantasy Hockey League. I want to offer my sincerest apology, and to state my absolute commitment to living up to the expectations the Dirty Pigeon Fantasy Hockey Community set for me when you elected me Commissioner. I understand why your faith in me has been shaken, and I recognize that it will take time and serious effort to heal the damage this conduct has caused.

I am ready to do that important work.

Humbled and grateful for this teachable moment.

Your fantasy hockey Commissioner,

Michael Murray

The heat sat upon everything.

Oppressive and exhausting, it slowly disabled the day’s options. You couldn’t go outside. You couldn’t get comfortable. You couldn’t even think straight, and every time you moved it was as if this thing, this heavy, unseen entity, was wrapping itself just a little more tightly around you.

It was a long weekend and most of the people in Toronto seemed to have vacated the city for cottages. As Rachelle, Jones and I drove through the city to the Ontario Science Centre, we passed empty streetcars on empty roads, and on very rare occasion a person—always appearing slightly dazed, as if they’d just forgotten where they were going. There was a distinctly post-apocalyptic vibe in the still, dirty air, and it all felt as much a dream as not.

The Science Centre was very crowded, though, and it was filled with people just like us, people looking for a place that was open to the public, air-conditioned and entertaining for young children. We were all lucky, all of us there, lucky to have such a place available to us, lucky to be able to use it, and lucky beyond the known margins, too, lucky in ways none of us could even imagine.

But still, it wasn’t easy. It was crowded and loud, even chaotic, and Jones was so excited that he ran in crazed and unpredictable zigzags, and after a few hours we felt like cats chasing the red dot of a laser pointer. And as it approached noon, the children, all exhausted and hungry now, began to throw tantrums. It was like artillery going off, like fireworks.

One child would explode into tears, another one would kick a juice box out of a parent’s hand, and another would just flop face first on the floor and begin kicking his feet, screaming. And so it went, a spreading contagion that was simultaneously hilarious and crushing.

We managed to slither and bounce through it all to find a passage that led to descending escalators. There must have been two or three of them, each one travelling deeper and deeper down and through the wooded ravine the Science Centre was built into.

It was like being submerged in a forest, and the air became cooler and lighter as we descended, and when we stepped off into the refreshing, muted light of a wide open museum space, we were transformed.

About fifty feet in front of us rotating light projections were being cast onto the floor from the ceiling. Ladybugs. Stars. Race Cars. Mysterious fish. Geometric patters. All the children dancing beneath and within this light, and everything was beautiful and quiet and astonishing, like we had just been led to an illuminated cave full of dolphins at play in the purest waters.

**********************************************

Rachelle: Well, how do you know that?

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: Really?

Rachelle: She pretended to retch?

Rachelle: Because you told her you liked her sneakers?

Rachelle: That is pretty extreme.

Rachelle: Was this one of the sorority girls who lives down the street?

Rachelle: The one who looks like Jennifer Lawrence?

Rachelle: I thought so.

Rachelle: And did you tell her this in a way that sounded like what you really meant was that you wanted to see her naked?

Rachelle: I see.

Rachelle: Yes, of course.

Rachelle: Look, I know you’re just trying to generate some light in this crazy, angry world, Pickle, I get that!

Rachelle: And sure, somebody has to help scantily clad sorority girls who are 30 years younger than you, feel like they’re making the right fashion choices.

Rachelle: Imagine if every time one of them passed by a much, much, much older man and he didn’t say something about what they were wearing? What would happen then? Their self-esteem might just crater and then who knows what might happen?! It could be catastrophic!

Rachelle: I’m not being sarcastic.

Rachelle: No, I’m not.

Rachelle: Nope.

Rachelle: Jesus Pickle, OF COURSE I’m being sarcastic.

Rachelle: It’s amazing to me how slow you are to pick-up on sarcasm!

Rachelle: Like at the park when that woman was complimenting how high you could go on the swings?

Rachelle: That was sarcasm.

Rachelle: And at the drum circle, when that man said that you “displayed a beautiful mastery over movement?”

Rachelle: That was sarcasm, too.

Rachelle: Oh honey, I’m sorry.

Rachelle: I am.

Rachelle: You’re right, sarcasm truly is the lowest form of humour.

Rachelle: Look,  it’s taking me longer than I thought here, do you mind picking Jones up from daycare?

Rachelle: Oh, I didn’t realize your group was meeting tonight.

Rachelle: I think it’s sweet that you guys get together and play Dungeons and Drama every month! Do you think you could let Jones join in? He’d love to dress up as Spiderman for it!

Rachelle: Dungeons and Dragons?

Rachelle: Oh, I always thought it was Dungeons and Drama.

Rachelle: I don’t know, I guess because of all the screaming and Lord of the Rings languages. Just seemed really dramatic.

Rachelle: Like an even nerdier version of Improv dramatic.

Rachelle: Whatever.

Rachelle: Okay, I get it.

Rachelle: It’s not a children’s game.

Rachelle: Very sophisticated. Very strategic. Good leadership training.

Rachelle: I’m surprised corporations like Google and Starbucks don’t use it as a training tool for their employees.

Rachelle: It really is a journey of discovery, isn’t it, Pickle?

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: That was about 98% sarcastic.

Rachelle: Okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll pick Jones up, and you, my little Dragonborn Sorcerer, you have a great time playing Dungeons and Diggers! xox

He was so excited.

He ran from enclosure to enclosure, his universe animating with such velocity and intensity that he simply could not contain himself. Pointing his finger with eyes that could not be more open, he would identify and offer commentary on every marvel he saw.

“Look! An Alligator!!”

He looked back at us utterly astonished, his mind expanding in ways we couldn’t even imagine. “Come mommy, come daddy,” he encouraged, his feet flapping on the ground as he ran ahead to the next wonder.

There were perhaps a hundred alligators, maybe more, and each one was an impossible occurrence as they materialized before Jones. And when we came upon the albino ones, each one so immaculately white as to look make believe, he almost exploded.

“WOW!! GHOST ALLIGATORS!!!

While Jones was marvelling over them I turned to the Komodo Dragon across the way. It looked as if it was made of chainmail. It noticed me looking at it, and while remaining immobile, it trained a lizard eye on me and stared right back.

We looked at one another for a spell, and I thought of the current running through it, of that electricity that at any moment could spark into unimaginable ferocity, as swift and inevitable as a natural disaster.

And then there were the giant pythons. Dead-eyed, coiled and intestinal, they lay still in the heat, as if creatures that had given up their external form in order to live their pure essence. Jones gasped before them, “SCARY!!” he shouted in a voice that wasn’t scared at all. To him it’s still just a word, something that describes a kind of exhilaration. What does he know of mortal fear? He’s never lost faith or confidence, waited for a doctor’s report, or seen something he loves diminish before his eyes and then vanish.

No, he remains a vessel of light, and as if to accent this there was unanticipated birdsong all around and above us. It turns out that in this park the alligators serve as a kind of protectorate, sheltering all the birds arriving there for mating season from predators. And so amidst these ancient reptiles there were all manner of birds, thin as twigs and bright as targets, living easily amongst them.

I had imagined that the park would be full of children like Jones running about, but mostly it was full of seniors, all armed with cameras with giant lenses, all hoping to capture that moment of first life when the fledglings peck through their eggshells and into this world of light and shadow.

The other day I was in a cab heading east on Bloor Street.

It was a beautiful, sunny day in autumn, a lucky day, even, but I was preoccupied by petty grievance. The driver was a smoker, and in order to air out his car before he picked me up he’d opened all the windows. You’d think I’d appreciate this, but I couldn’t get past the heavy, permanent smell of smoke, and the open windows were just serving as conduits, breaches through which all my seasonal allergies might stream. Somewhat unkindly, I asked him to close the windows, which he did, and with that it was like a wall went up between us.

As we approached Varsity Stadium he reopened a couple of the windows I had asked him to close, but before I could protest, music thumped into the car. A marching band–glittering in red and undulating like a flag– was in the stands performing the Battle Hymn of the Republic while a football game unfolded beneath.

Somehow this ignited a million unanticipated things at once, and we drove through the music with our heads out the window, as if it was weather we thirsted for.

On the field U of T was playing Queens and the crowd sounded like a tiny ocean. The athletes, all perfect, all aimed from birth to this moment in time, stood about like gold and blue statues. And one of them was going to make the best catch of his life, something he would return to again and again over the course of his life. Somebody else was going to get injured and never be quite the same. And in that crowd another person would see a beautiful young woman smile and feel nourished. A woman in a wheelchair felt the sun, and parents from small cities and towns, drove in to see their now grown children– now so terribly missed, now just beyond their protective reach.

The driver, whom I had forgotten about for a moment, startled me by speaking.

“I am not from here, so none of this is familiar to me,” He gestured toward the football stadium. “But still, when I hear that music and see all the people, it calls me in my bones. It is a kind of nostalgia, but for what I do not know.”

Sadly, this state of affairs continued after she happened upon a garage sale ( http://michaelmurray.ca/garage-sale ) Rachelle and I were having, and then kind of exploded the other night on Twitter when I got involved in a debate about condos she was having with another Toronto writer. I interceded in the middle of the debate, and these are the tweets that passed between Atwood and I on that night:

******************************************************

@margaretatwood: The un-rich have owned their houses for decades. Why should a development go right up to their lot lines and kill their beloved trees?

@michaelmurrayca: Have you seen an un-rich!?!? I hear they have teeth where ears should be and can only be killed by Dragonglass or gentrification!

@margaretatwood: Oh. It’s you.

@michaelmurrayca: I am an un-rich, you know.

@margaretatwood: Yes, I was able to deduce that from that little garage sale you had.

@michaelmurrayca: Made almost $80 at that sale.

@margaretatwood: Why, that must be more than you made on your book!

@michaelmurrayca: Unlike some authors who quickly sell-out to tv, I have some integrity. It’s not all about the money, Margaret, some of us are artists.

@margaretatwood: There is no hyphen in sellout.

@michaelmurrayca: I hear that they’re making The Handmaid’s Tale into a reality tv show.

Kind of like The Bachelor. You must be very proud.

@margaretatwood: Yes, as proud as your wife and son must be of you and your ability to provide for them through your “art.”

@michaelmurrayca: You remind me of Cersei Lannister.

@margaretatwood: You hate powerful women, do you?

@michaelmurray: Yes, very, very much.

@margaretatwood: Do you also disapprove of civic mindedness?

@michaelmurrayca: I am for whatever position you are against.

@margaretatwood: So you are in favour of killing trees, then?

@michaelmurrayca: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

@margaretatwood: So the fact that you’re totally uninformed about this condo development and the devastation it will bring to the local environment, that doesn’t prevent you from jumping in with an “opinion?”

@michaelmurrayca: I’d say it’s more commentary than opinion.

@margaretatwood: Tu tetras, homo parum de moron.

@michaelmurrayca: Oh, la-di-da! The grand dame speaks French!

@margaretatwood: Yes, I do, but the Tweet you are referring to happened to be latin. Like they speak in Mexico.

@michaelmurrayca: Were you called Margaret Fatwood in high school?

@margaretatwood: Oh my, I had forgotten about your biting wit.

@michaelmurrayca: In high school I was called The Enforcer.

@margaretatwood: It was ironic, I take it?

@michaelmurrayca: I was practically a god in high school, you have no idea!!

@margaretatwood: You miss those days, don’t you?

@margaretatwood: In spite of all the sport’s teams you never made, the low C’s you struggled to achieve and all the pretty girls who wouldn’t even glance at you, those were still the best years of your life, weren’t they?

@margareatatwood: Yes, I thought so.

Whenever I’m in one I think of some punitive elementary school. There’s an entire galaxy of largely symbolic rules, and everything associated with us is measured, weighed and timed. And as you stand in line you find yourself worrying about whether you remembered to bring your phone charger. Or your cool sneakers. Or your medicine. And so it goes, and never for a second do you forget that what you are about to do may be the last thing you ever do in your life.

Flying is something of a miracle, and we’re all, at least partially, expecting it to fail. And who can blame us for this suppressed expectation? Any time a plane crashes it’s international news. When the story breaks, people all over the world, those doing dishes or clicking “like,” are wondering just how they would have behaved in their last terrified moments as fire, cloud and sky sped by.

And please don’t forget the terrorists.

They might materialize at any moment. If you forget this, there is a terror alert, like a goal-thermometer on a fundraising marathon, warning you that today, the day you’re to give your first professional speech, the terror alert is ORANGE.

So air transit, even in a best case scenario, is a tense thing.

I imagine that Dr. Dao, the man who was dragged bleeding off a United flight earlier this week, was feeling some of this tension and uncertainty as he waited for his plane to fly him home to Kentucky.

Now we’ve all seen the video, and everybody knows that what took place was wrong.

However, the corporate face of United used the word “re-accommodation” to describe what happened. This is the kind of soft evil that creeps into our lives each day, and then stays there, existing beneath our skin like some sort of bacteria. We know all about over-booking now, and it all reduces to the airline valuing profit over people. This is the corporate way upon which our society functions. What seems to have shocked the microsystem in this case was that nobody would take a material inducement to give up their seat.

And what’s the corporate ethos in such a situation?

And so they dragged him screaming and bleeding from his seat. The law, of course, is behind United. Trapped in this culture where being busy is seen as a sign of status, we’re all so desperate to escape the heaviness of our lives and get to the beach in Veradaro,

that we accept that we might be “re-accommodated” when we buy our tickets. We sign-off on the fact that although we’ve bought a ticket and made all sorts of arrangements contingent on the timing of that flight, we might still lose our seat.

It’s kind of insane. The law allows a corporation to hedge on their services in order for them to maximize profits, even if it’s a ruinous policy for individual consumers. That the law favours corporate growth over human security is nothing new, but this is a particularly vivid example of the amoral structure that pins over our lives.

In the aftermath, Dr. Dao’s was vilified– a tactic minority communities know all too intimately—and the saga, now diffused through late night talk shows, social media and PR flak, is about to replaced by the next meme-worthy event. And still, the corporations will preside over us like gods, and because we believe we need what they offer, we will ignore our own intuition and continue to be subordinate to them, regardless the cost to human dignity and instinct.

but I recently made an exception when Manor Park Public School asked me to address their students.

I was a pupil there back in the 70’s, dominating the classroom and playground from grade two to six, and I guess it’s fair to say I was a bit of a legend. The current principle, after hearing of my brilliant, game-changing, hugely successful book A VAN FULL OF GIRLS,

wanted to know if I, “a real writer,” would give the commencement speech to her graduating grade six students.

This is the text to my speech:

“Graduating class of 2016, I’m not going to lie to you.

Grade seven is a shit show.

The truth is that you’re really, really going to hate it. So much so that you’re going to wake up each day terrified, jittery and spastic. Bad things will happen every day. Algebra, for instance. Algebra will strike you like a goddamn wasting disease. Girls will become powerful beyond your wildest comprehension. You won’t know what hit you. And without any warning, and for no reason whatsoever, the kids you thought were your friends will turn on you. Look to your right. That kid there? That kid will one day spit on you. To your left now, please. That kid? That kid will tell the person you want to ask to the dance that you have B.O. from your butt. And you won’t have any idea why. You will look and feel ugly. Your parents, before they divorce, will probably take you to a psychiatrist and then you’ll have to take pills that make you a really sad kind of sleepy.

Welcome to the real world, class of 2016

But it’s not all doom and gloom and climate change and dying pets and pimples the size of coins, no, there is some relief to be found. You can read, for instance, taking refuge in make-believe worlds where nobody is going to beat you up each day because they heard your mother speaking french, or something. 

I work as an author, which means I spend all my time constructing these magical realms of make believe! Think of me as a modern-day wizard!

(child yells)

Sorry? I didn’t hear you.

(Inaudible)

No, not Voldemort, the other one.

(Various children yell)

Didn’t Voldemort have a good brother?

(Children shrieking NO!!)

Well, he should have, but whatever. Fine, then. I am like Voldemort–a powerful, powerful, often misunderstood wizard who can conjure great worlds and then shrink them into books like A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, which can be bought online at Indigo Books, and is such a powerful spell that it might just save your life! You should pester your parents until they buy you several copies—remember, your happiness, the entire course of your future depends on you getting this one thing right. Get your parents to buy you A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, and get them to do it now before it’s too late. Tell them it’s for a class or something, it doesn’t matter.

Class of 2016, congratulations, and may you all travel in A VAN FULL OF GIRLS!

Thank you all, and God bless.

I often pass Hand Job Park as I take our dog Heidi for a walk, and as fate would have it, I’ve become friendly with Billy, one of the men who spends time there.

Because I have really lousy teeth and travel with an oxygen tank, Billy believes that I am a reformed crackhead, and am thus something of an inspiration to him, evidence that you can turn your life around and one day inhabit a beautiful family. As such, he’s always asking me for advice, and I have taken on the unofficial role as Billy’s Life Coach.

Every Sunday, I walk down to the park, talk to him about his week, and give him a written list of daily goals for the next week. This was my last list:

Monday:

Find public fountain and wash clothes.

Scavenge with your head, not your heart. Look for healthy, nutritional garbage opportunities such as a discarded smoothie, for instance!

Say it out loud to yourself, again and again, “My name is Billy and I will Scavenge Smart!”

Walk for at least six hours.

Learn how to tune guitar.

Affirmation of the day: THERE IS A GIFT FOR ME IN EVERYTHING THAT I EXPERIENCE.

Tuesday:

When busking, perhaps do it in front of Shopper’s instead of the liquor store? Why tempt yourself? Remember Billy, GOOD CHOICES.

Stay away from Hyena’s Old Lady. Remember what happened last time she gave you a hand job?

Walk for at least six hours.

Practice guitar for an hour.

Affirmation of the day: THE VOICES IN MY HEAD ARE NOT REAL. I AM IN CONTROL.

Wednesday:

Today I would like you to go some place quiet (perhaps the Green P Carpark) and center yourself with some light stretching and meditation. Be mindful, Billy. Feel the sun upon your skin and hear the birds singing. You are not separate from nature, but are a perfect and integral component of nature.

Surrender to oneness. Think of everything in your life (guitar, Bo Jackson football jersey, etcetera) that you are grateful for and carry that with you throughout the day like it was a weapon in your backpack.

Remember to walk at least six hours.

Practice guitar for an hour.

Affirmation of the day: THE PAST IS OVER AND MY FUTURE IS NOW!

Thursday:

While busking, take an interest in the lives of those passing by. Remember, they’re people, too. However, remember not to take too intense an interest in the lives of the nearby Sorority girls.

Although you may mean “spicy” as a compliment, they may not take it that way.

Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of society. Make inquiries into joining Choir! Choir! Choir!

Walk for six and a half hours.

Practice guitar for one.

Love yourself for twenty-four. : )

Affirmation of the day: EVERY MOMENT I STEP INTO THE WONDERFUL UNKNOWN

Friday:

Treat yourself to a nice wash in a public fountain.

Feel rejuvenated, in love with yourself and the world around you!

As today marks the opening of the Olympic Games in Rio,

why not jazz up business with a Brazilian theme? When strumming your guitar, add some latin flair! Try to scavenge for food that is unique to Brazil, and if one of the voices in your head speaks Portuguese, have a conversation with it!

Today is a reward day, so score some dope or booze if you can and celebrate the beautiful life that is Billy!

Affirmation of the day: REMEMBER TO GIVE HAND JOBS AND NOT JUST RECEIVE THEM!

I recently sent him some Medieval manuscript images that I found online and asked him to explain them to me. These are the results:

You should think of the images of the illuminated manuscripts of the 8^th to the 15^th century as the Instagram of the day. In this particular “post” we see a Medieval version of the Kardashian sisters as they conjure magical spells while encircling a tree. These young women are almost certainly witches, and when the community uncovered their black magic, they would have surely been tied to wild horses and torn apart while the townsfolk cheered and threw potatoes. (Note the surgically enhanced breasts. The cosmetic surgeons of the day used to insert clay molds beneath the skin in order to achieve the desired shape. Mortality rates were very high with this procedure. )

This is a highly skilled depiction of some very put-out dogs standing in a field. One of the dogs, the white one with the regal collar around its neck and the small erection, looks slightly ashamed. He likely offended the commoner dogs (note the mottled colours and blunt expressions that characterize the serf animals) by questioning their religious values and then attempting to rape them. Think of this panel as one that prefigures Cute Overload.

Monks did more than just illuminate manuscripts. For recreation they played other monasteries in a Medieval version of Ultimate. Of course, a frisbee had not yet been invented, so the monks used a scapula, also known as a human shoulder blade. These were festive occasions for the monks, characterized by excessive drinking (They brewed beer, too) and the ribald singing of team songs. This image of the bat is the team crest of the Carthusian Bats, a formidable franchise known for their vows of silence and ferocity on the field.

This is the equivalent of a Medieval paparazzi shot or stolen cell phone photo. It captures the King and Queen in an unguarded and intimate moment as they enjoy a hot tub. The Queen, obviously spent after intercourse in the hot water, catches her breath, while the robust King, carrying his Holy Ejaculate Saucer, heads off to enjoy the pleasures of his many concubines. This image should be thought of as one you might find on 4chan.

The beatified and sacred have gathered in this image for an annual event in which awards are given out to the holy. It happened once a year, was very secretive, and is vaguely analogous to the Academy Awards. The holy would each have a vote, which they cast in private, on such categories as, “Best Performance While Living Atop A Pillar,” or “Most Holy Self-Flagelator Of The Year.” It was very much looked forward to by the participants, and they all hoped to win, even if they took a public stance of humility and abasement—just look at the attention they paid to their wardrobe for this event.