Donald Trump is the living embodiment of a cliffhanger.

I swear, everything the man does compels us to astonishment. And once this happens he has us trapped– as the complicit media knows all too well. Almost obediently, we’ll sit there in anxious anticipation, eagerly awaiting his next act as if it were an episode of Breaking Bad. Trump, always the catalytic agent, exists to propel narratives forward. Where that story came from or where it might be headed is entirely immaterial, all that matters is that in that moment you cared, and the more passionately you cared, the better for him.

Since his election my media streams have been rivers of fire. All day long people have been screaming at one another and making the boldest declarations. It reminds me of the Olympics, actually. Some sport I will have never heard of might pop up, and after a brief, mechanical explanation of what it is and a few minutes of watching, I’ll feel like an expert.

And so it goes with politics. We may not speak the language, we may not have visited the country, we may not have any friends who are native to the place, but in very short order, we still have really, really strong opinions about what should happen to it.

Whenever I find myself assuming this role and asserting some far too sure political view, I remind myself that I have trouble keeping my own house in order. What’s my economic plan for the USA? Hell, what’s my economic plan for my family!

The world is infinitely complex, and our ability to understand it is miniscule. Our chances of being wrong about something are far greater than our chances of being right, and it’s important we keep this in mind, particularly when judging those we disagree with. I mean, if you’re awake enough to understand that not all Muslims are terrorists, then you should be awake enough to understand that not all of your political opponents are racist morons.

One’s politics are a very poorly articulated version of the sort of person one might be in the world. Typically it says more about how we’d like to be seen, than how we actually conduct ourselves. And it is just so hard to live a pure life in this society, we must always keep in mind that it is upon monstrous deeds that most of us have happily, blindly, built our lives.

The furious, pre-apocalyptic tensions defining the USA right now are typically lumped into two categories. There are the coastal city-states that house the progressives and elites, and then there is the rest of America, a kind of seething, primitive horde—think Orcs.

I try to look at it more like the future pitted agains the past.

Every year our world changes more than it has in all the generations stacked before it. A lot of people are disoriented and terrified by the velocity at which their lives are now moving, while others are grateful that time has finally caught up with them. And when one traditional way of life is subsumed by another, there is usually a violent reaction, and I think that’s what we’re seeing– the past trying to claw the future back in place, and a resentful and protective future stomping back.

So be kind if you can, for everybody is feeling like they’re hanging off the edge of a cliff.

He made this comment a couple of weeks ago after Kanye had said something Kanyesque about books. This was the quote:

“Sometimes people write novels and they just be so wordy and so self-absorbed. I am not a fan of books. I am a proud non-reader of books.”

People, primarily white, middle-class people, as far as I could tell, rushed to their social media channels to denounce and mock Kanye yet again, portraying him as an illiterate, entitled child who lacked the intellectual capacity for long-form reading. However, in so doing they completely over-looked the fact that what he said wasn’t stupid at all, and could easily apply to the vast majority of the population.

Novels were once the castles in which everybody wanted to live. To write one was considered the highest artistic and intellectual aspiration, and all that was profound in culture and human experience was transferred– as if by holy passage– through them. Well, that’s simply not the case any more. The world has changed and we consume our culture and entertainment in very different ways than we did 50 years ago.

The experience I used to get reading a novel, I now typically get following specific TV shows. For me, the scope, intellect and cultural penetration offered in shows like Breaking Bad or Transparent (you could name dozens more), and the continued richness of experience and evolution of circumstance they present, simply outstrips what is available in novels. Other people will make similar arguments using graphic novels, Blogs, gaming communities, sports or more traditional forms like cinema, dance or music as examples. (I would also argue that we are much more participatory, almost partnered, in what we consume now and much less the passive receptacles we were in the past.)

Novels, particularly literary novels, have traditionally been written by a very specific group of people, and it’s never been a diverse group. The expression “Dead White Males” might pop to mind here, and although there’s much greater diversity in writing than there ever has been before, it still speaks loudest in the privileged, virtually aristocratic fields of MFA’s.

Naturally then, the experience of reading novels is an alienating one for the vast majority, and with so many other, and superior options available, why on earth would somebody like Kanye spend his time reading books that don’t speak to him, instead of creating art and pursuing his passions?

Earlier in the week a video purportedly made by bored hacktivist group Anonymous was released targeting Kanye. It was ridiculous– like a Prog Rock video from the 80’s. In it, a Guy Fawkes masked figure, in a condescending British accent, chided Kanye for all manner of untoward behaviour. It really sounded like the gripes of a 15 year-old who was angry with the cool kid in school who got all the attention.

What people want with Kanye, I think, is to keep him in line.

They want him to remember his place in the hierarchy, and every time they raise their voices to ridicule something he says or cry foul at a taboo he’s broken, they remind us not of his boundless ego, but of their inability to live in a world– now so different from the one they grew up in– where a man like Kanye might confidently assert himself and speak for an unheard majority that they’re no longer a part of.

SWORD FOR SALE—WARNING—MIGHT BE HAUNTED–$150

This sword is from the 1700s. I got it at an antique store in my memaw’s hometown back in 1984. The person who sold it to me told me to be careful because there is a 90+% chance that it is cursed. Since it’s been in my house my life has descended into pure chaos. My knitting group came over and they all said they could feel a strange energy in my sword room (I have a collection of over 100 swords. This is my only haunted sword). Since I got this sword, about 3 times a week a crucifix will fall off of my wall for no reason. I am 76 years old. I cannot have this cursed item in my house anymore. Please take it off my hands!!

This is my response:

I am very intrigued by your sword, but unfortunately the $150 asking price is far too much. Instead, I would like to offer a trade. I have two unique and haunted pieces that I think might exceed the value of your haunted sword, and which you might then trade or sell, thus allowing you to acquire more non-haunted swords for your knitting bunker.

The Haunted Painting

It is called The Green Man and is about 8 feet by 5 in size. It darkly looms. I had a heart attack in its presence, and then fell into a black and murderous depression as I sat beneath it working on my graphic novel about a green man who goes on a killing spree. If it wasn’t for Netflix, I’m not sure I would have pulled out of that spiral. The paintings bold use of colour and the ominous unsettling mystery that it projects, one that seems everywhere at once, but mostly, in a threatening way, above and behind you, ensures that the Green Man will always make for an amazing, if chilling conversation piece.

The Haunted Squirrel

The squirrel is called Mr. Peanut and he was found hanging from a hydro wire in front of our apartment. It was as if he had just committed suicide. I have no idea why, but I was compelled to bring his carcass down and stuff it. Since then, he has lived on our mantelpiece, but occasionally we find him in different parts of the apartment as if transported by mystical elements we do not understand. For instance, I once woke up from a nightmare yelling ‘SKY DEATH’ with Mr. Peanut on my throat. It’s truly unique piece.

I will trade you both the haunted painting and the haunted squirrel for the haunted sword. It is a good deal.

Let me know.

Michael Murray

Born to Lead

Grade 9

Bob Bord had blond hair and could almost lift the back of a car off the ground. His dad drove a BMW and Bob was the coolest kid in all of the school. His nickname was Boss B! Everything in Bob’s life was amazing except for one thing, Bob thought school completely sucked! It grossed him out, and whenever Bob got mad or bored something really cool happened to him. Do you know what that was? He turned into the Incredible Hulk only instead of being green he was red with blond hair. His rage was great. SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!! He broke the blackboard over the teacher’s head! SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!!  All the other prisoners cheered, and then the Incredible Bob Hulk punched a hole in the wall! SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!! All the kids, even the nerd kids, escaped through the hole and then played football. Boss B was quarterback, Caitlin wore her white shorts, and it was awesome.

Sometimes At Night

Grade 10

Sometimes at night I wonder

why some people have so little

and others have so much?

I am strong, rich and good at the shot put,

but other people are poor, weak and bad at sports.

Why is that?

THEY DON’T WANT IT ENOUGH!

My inner voice screams at me,

THEY DON’T WANT IT ENOUGH!

THEY ARE LAZY!!

My inner voice is never wrong!

This truth, like a Rush drum solo pounding in my heart.

Top Gunner

Grade 11

Lieutenant Ross Fordington wasn’t scared of anything, least of all big government or night demons. He was the best pilot in the entire military, even though he liked to do things his own way.

“Get out of my way!” Fordington shouted, “ I don’t need any pencil pusher telling me how to bomb a government-subsidized village!”

Jones, Fordington’s best buddy and wingman, put his steady hand out. “No,” he said to Captain Limp, a washed-out pilot who relied on a bloated salary he didn’t deserve to live a lavish, elite lifestyle and ride a bike. “You’d best leave the Bear alone unless you want a fist in the face!” Limp shriveled up like the small, scared girl he was, and then Fordington went out and bombed the village killing all of his enemies.

After his missions, Fordington was never bothered by night demons. They never haunted or tormented him in the dark hours for the things that he did, and Fordington never, ever woke up screaming and ashamed, soaked in a cold, mortal sweat.

The Night Demons

Grade 13

Fod Rord was a bull of a man. He had a thick, powerful neck, could run fast for his size and was able to throw a football 150 meters. He was also really funny and had lots of money. People loved him and always wanted to come to his pool parties. He had it all.

Until the night demons came.

Sometimes, when Fod was in bed and alone with his thoughts, he’d begin to feel restless, as if somebody, or something, was watching him because he had done bad things. Fod would try to shake it off. He hadn’t done anything wrong! He knew that! That raccoon was a societal leech! Nobody knew if Priynka slipped or was pushed! The gardener could easily have taken that money! Fod knew that he was in the right and that he was strong and destined for great things, but the night demons did not.

Each night they would come to him, their pale, weak faces chattering and asking questions. The night demons, they invaded his privacy, and even when Fod put on his headphones and listened to his greatest football huddles of all time tape, they were still there. They would not go away! They were awful! Because of the night demons Fod would often go out into the night and wander in the wooded area beside his expansive family estate in order to clear his mind. Sometimes he would just yell he was so frustrated. His roars were so terrible and powerful that the birds would suddenly take flight, and Fod would sit down and, not crying, just look up at the moon and the eternal stars that filled the sky.

“For dogs, eh? So instead of you throwing the ball, this thing throws it for you?”

“ She just loves it.” I told him. “She jumps about, all excited yet totally focused, her tail beating like a propeller. It’s just about impossible to imagine a creature as perfectly alive in it’s own body, you know?”

He smiled and nodded.

I was going to move on but I didn’t.

“Can you remember anything that made you feel as alive in your body as fetch does to this dog? For me I think it was playing hockey as a boy. It was like being free of from the limitations of my body, almost from gravity, and I loved it so much that I would play for hours and hours and hours, finally walking home in my skates with frozen feet.”

The man didn’t say anything and I felt I’d gone on too much and was being weird and was about to move along again, but then he started to answer my question.

“I wasn’t much at sports and I guess I liked being alone– I didn’t have the best home life– but what I loved was kites. I had a Superman kite and I would go out into a field when I was about 8 or 9 and just see how high the wind could take it, imagining myself to be the kite, to be up there like Superman. So like you said, it was being free from your body, and those were the greatest moments of peace and happiness I think I ever had in my life.”

You’re malevolent, like the sort of thing a Super Villain might keep in his utility belt.

When I bought you I thought of the aroma of pumpkin pie, I thought of the gentle touch of a mother, a soft and restorative healing force, but what I received was more like a radioactive explosion. What the fuck are you?!!

You gave me a THIRD degree burn!

That’s the Grizzly Bear of burns! Doctors and nurses were peeling back the bandage and looking at it like it was Two Girls One Cup! And these were medical professionals!

You FUCKER!

Your stupid blue, felt cover, which instantly pills– as if it was some fucking Blow Fish– just falls off like so much flesh from a THIRD DEGREE burn! It’s useless, nothing more than a deception! You would need to be encased in a one-foot thick case of lead—like a coffin—to protect your victims from your deadly Superheat Technology! What, were you some crazy experiment that the Soviets abandoned because it was too dangerous? I am thinking that you were, you bitch.

And listen Death Pad, I was using you exactly as you were designed and as I was instructed to use you. Was it my fault that I fell asleep while watching that excruciatingly boring movie about whales and that your Deception Cover vanished? No, it was not my fault! It was my misfortune! And then vulnerable while asleep, you heat raped me. You burned a fucking hole in my side! I thought I was having a nightmare about global warming, but no, when I was living a nightmare starring you, the evil kill pad!

My therapist tells me a have an abundance of displaced anger and that it’s up to me how I use it. I choose to use it to kill Super Villains.

I am coming after you, you cocksucker, and I am going to set you on goddamn fire. You will also have to pay me forty million dollars or something, because this fucking burn is disgusting and it kills. In fact, the pain is so great that I am now completely addicted to Percocet, which is the only reason this entire letter isn’t written in capitals.

Watch your back, motherfucker.

Michael Murray