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.
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It was a hit.
A really big hit.
It became pretty hard to keep up, and then, after one reader misinterpreted my thoughts regarding the use of fire while giving a reading, I decided to step back to spend more time with my family. Regardless, the letters kept coming, and so I feel I owe it to my loyal fans to resurrect the column, which is what I’m doing right now.
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Dear Bitter Writer:
You’re likely aware of the Twitter Challenge in which women were asked to, “Describe yourself like a male author would.” The point of this, of course, was to illustrate how men objectified women, but what I would find really interesting with you– as an impossibly mediocre white man in possession of a level of confidence that outstrips your very modest competencies by an incalculable magnitude– is to have you describe yourself. I have included a photograph in case you should need a reference point.
Lynn from Montreal
Dear Lynn:
In Havana he was known as “ La muerte incómoda.”
It was a term of respect, of great respect, in fact, and more than a little fear. What had Michael Murray done to earn such a nickname from the gentle people of Cuba?
Well, that’s a long and complicated story that will reveal itself in time, but for now we should just imagine the man as he sat there, commandingly, in the barber’s chair. His face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, and his most striking feature was his opaline green eyes, which could be both alluring or intimidating, as the situation required. A part of his barber’s apron fell open from the cooling breeze of the fan and revealed the shirt he was wearing. There were little baseball players on it. He looked up, his eyes clear and even as he wiped some sweat off his upper lip, “ ¿Cómo está mi calva haciendo allí?” he asked the trembling barber. And in that moment Murray’s beauty was revealed the edge of a very sharp knife.
Dear Bitter Writer:
It recently came to my attention that an author at a major publishing house threatened to slap a reviewer who didn’t like his moronic, insulting book, and I was wondering if the publishing house was going to punish him for it, or if white male authors can do literally anything?
Karen in Toronto
Dear Karen:
Have you seen White Male Author: Infinity War, yet?
Easily the best of the franchise. Just fantastic.
At any rate, this movie goes a long way to answer your question. In it, Thanos
attempts to destroy Planet Earth, and after incapacitating both The Avengers and The X-Men it seemed that victory was certain. Right at this despairing point in the movie, White Male Author showed up and blasted him with his laser pulses.
He then flew around Thanos so quickly that the wind currents kept him pinned to the ground while the other superheroes freed themselves from the Polaris Fog that Thanos had used to trap them, and then all together were able to cast Thanos back into the Canyons of Zorg. So it’s clear that although White Male Author is VERY powerful, certainly superior to Spiderman, he might not be as invincible as The Hulk or The Thing.
At any rate, even though White Male Author is very, very powerful, I don’t think he can do literally anything.
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Me: No, I haven’t heard back from Nancy.
Me: Well, I can’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t want to do it. It’s an awesome idea!
Me: She owns a cheese shop, so me setting up a grilled cheese booth in there is a no-brainer!
Me: It’s win/win, baby!
Me: Well, I thought I’d pick up one of those Instant Pot things and cook them in there.
Me: Oh.
Me: Really?
Me: The Instant Pot can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches?
Me: Why isn’t that on their advertising?
Me: Well, that sucks.
Me: Thought it could do practically everything.
Me: Yeah, I guess I did kind of imagine it like a robot.
Me: No, not like that.
Me: A benevolent robot, one that serves man, AND is capable of making a grilled cheese sandwich.
Me: Well, if it can’t make a damn sandwich, why the hell was it named Time Magazine’s Person of the year??
Me: Oh, I thought it was.
Me: The Silence Breakers were?
Me: I don’t know who they are.
Me: Oh.
Me: Yes, they are very brave women. #TimesUp
Me: I am an ally.
Me: Look, we’ve been through this before.
Me: Feminism is many things, many voices–and my collection of vintage Raquel Welch memorabilia doesn’t make me a “Bad Feminist.”
Me: It makes me an ally.
Me: No, not a creep, an ally.
Me: Well, let me tell you, I’d be delighted if she exploited me back.
Me: I really would.
Me: Oh, don’t act so innocent!
Me: You know you want to be exploited by Colin Farrell.
Me: I saw how many times you watched that Miami Vice movie, and I saw the way your eyes got all weird and intense whenever that greasy Crockett came on screen!
Me: I can’t believe you just wrote that!
Me: You’ve stopped going to your low carb support group, haven’t you?
Me: You were very high in agreeability when you were eating carbs.
Me: Now, not so much.
Me: The Rachelle Maynard I know (and love!) would never have said something like that to me if she was properly managing her carb withdrawal.
Me: Yes.
Me: Yes.
Me: I can see that now.
Me: I am sorry.
Me: I love you way more than I could ever love Raquel Welch.
Me: If I had a poster of you, I’d put it up over the fireplace. I’d wallpaper the entire apartment in you if I could!
Me: No, not like a serial killer.
Me: Like I’m your Crockett and you’re my Tubbs.
Me: We mustn’t let Trump divide us, my love.
Me: It’s what he wants.
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