It was a microburst, and the whole thing was over in about three minutes. There was a sudden blast from above, around and beyond, and it felt like the Mighty Thor had just hammered the earth and summoned forth all elements of sky.
The wind was haphazard and suicidal, as if careening out of control down a hill, and it gathered the falling rain in unequal, horizontal batches and then smashed it against whatever surface stood before it. The big tree in front practically shattered, and as it scattered before us, we could see one of it’s massive branches wheeling through the sky, and then in just a moment or two, it all stopped, and everything was quiet and strange and wonderful.
The power was out, and all the people living up and down the street came tenderly from their homes to marvel at the fallen landscape around us. Jones, so small and alive, jumped in puddles and walked amidst the rent trees like the jungles they were.
There was a clear, cooling wind that felt like it was coming off foreign waters, and people gathered before their homes to share their stories.
In this densely populated part of the city, we catch glimpses of our neighbours rather than actually know them, but with the storm all obligations of habit and place and order seemed to vanish. We were free of that, sort of, and it was like we could no longer pretend we were strangers.
The neighbour who never waved, the organized looking one with the yoga mat and unfriendly ponytail, well, she waved at us for the first time. Buck, the almost-old man who lives alone next door, the one I thought was an asshole until I discovered he was partially deaf and never heard me saying ‘hello,’ was like an 11 year-old. Excitedly, he rode about on his 30 year-old CCM bike, returning wide-eyed to say things like, “You should see Bernard Street! Trees everywhere!” Dogs now on walks, pulled comically massive branches along behind them. Couples, happy to be without power, happy to know they were lucky enough that being without power was a fun little, adventure rather than a life-altering catastrophe, headed out for dinner. And the basement tenant, as thin and mysterious as a pirate, came up and surveyed the scene. After deducing how to solve the most immediate problem, he got a small handsaw and began to wordlessly cut the fallen branches of the tree, quickly clearing a path on the sidewalk– the ash never once dropping from his cigarette.
All of us now, after something so unexpected, powerful and unknowable, felt a sense of shared, mortal vulnerability. The stable, trusted world we had imagined had been revealed a flimsy thing. Lucky for so many reasons, we all lingered together outside, comforted by the other, like ancients around a campfire, small and humble beneath an endless sky.
]]>
Middle-aged men, guys getting off work and who are still in their FedEx or Hydro uniforms go there. Each night, as part of a promotion, the bar host’s a card came which takes place at the back on one of those poker tables you can buy at Canadian Tire. The other night it was Texas Hold ‘Em they were playing, and although it’s a cashless game, since it’s poker, people felt heavily invested.
As I was sitting at the bar drifting through the sports section, a fight erupted at the back of the bar. It was extraordinary how quickly rage, explosive rage, swept in and over the table. Men, something now ignited within, had pushed back their chairs and were standing. Screaming and swearing, they waved their arms about and stiffened into fighting posture, fists clenched. A woman, who seemed to be at the centre of it all, had a voice that was a black, untranslatable hiss, more the unearthly vocalizations of possession than language. She threw a glass against the wall, her long hair waving in fury, as the men shouted. It seemed the very manifestation of mental illness, that from the collective interiors of these people, a dark, stormy cloud of violence had been summoned.
But the thing that struck me the most was how quickly it all passed, and how everybody seemed to enjoy it. It had been fun for them. What, I wonder, does that say about us? On a frigid, lonely night in February a group of strangers go out looking for something. They find one another at a card table in a bar, and what they needed was this, to wake up and experience that jolt of electricity spiking through their bodies, so that for a moment each one of them was alive in the streaming arteries, heroes on a battlefield, the lion’s roar that answered back to the night.
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
]]>*****************************************************
M: There is a power outage!!! All is dark!!!
M: It’s another World Class power failure!
M: I think it’s the third this month.
M: Yes, I did call Rob Ford.
M: Couldn’t get through.
M: Got a message that said my problem was important to him.
M: My feet are cold.
M: We should get a heating pad that works without electricity if we’re going to live in Toronto.
M: Oh, right! A hot water bottle!
M: Yeah, I bet hipsters make them to look like owls. We should get one for our emergency kit.
M: What am I doing?
M: I’m lying in bed wishing I had a hot water bottle.
M: Yes, I guess I am draining my phone battery.
M: Yes, I am in complete darkness.
M: Except for the little glow of my iPhone.
M: When I turn off my iPhone, it must be exactly what it’s like to be a ghost.
M: Well no, I can’t float about or pass through walls.
M: Look, I don’t know why you have to be so difficult about this.
M: We really don’t know if ghosts can see or not. Maybe that’s why they pass through walls– they can’t see them but instead of bumping into them, they just pass right through!
M: Well, I don’t know how they know where the people are if they can’t see. Maybe they have super hearing?
M: Look, I just figured ghosts live in darkness is all, okay?
M: Whatever.
M: Okay.
M: Fine, maybe it’s more what it’s like for a dead person than for a ghost.
M: You people with power sure are arrogant.
M: I’m going to light a candle and see if I become all stuck up.
M: Oh my God.
M: The apocalypse blood-red moon was today!
M: I forgot that!
M: I just heard a wolf howl!
M: This could be the end of the world, and we’re fighting about what it’s like to be a ghost!
M: So petty.
M: Look, I’ve done a lot of research on ghosts, you know.
M: Have to.
M: No.
M: No, I’ve never talked to one so I don’t know what their lives are really like.
M: Fine. Rachelle 1, Michael 0.
M: You just don’t care about the apocalypse, do you?
M: It’s a pretty big deal.
M: Fuck, my battery is nearly dead and there are three weird looking people with shopping carts on the street.
M: It’s like they’re plotting.
M: Yes, plotting to take our bottles, but something worse, too.
M: I can feel it.
M: I’m scared.
M: And I don’t know where my inhaler is!!
M: Fuck!!
M: When are you getting home?!
M: Where’s the Ativan???
M: Oh.
M: Light just came back on.
M: Bottle collecting murders are still staring though.
]]>