It’s apocalyptic out there – lashing winds, torrential rain in the darkness. Friends have emailed that their fireplaces are stoked and sleeping bags piled in front, they’ve filled buckets with water, have their flashlights and candles and vats of chicken cacciatore at the ready … Hurricane Sandy is making her rounds. Not nearly as bad here as in the Eastern U.S., but still, amazingly fierce. I ended the class at Ryerson 20 minutes early tonight, so the 11 brave writers who made it there could get home before it got worse, as it will tonight.
I wish the roofer had finished my flat roof and re-installed the downspouts. But he hasn’t. I left several messages this week, but no answer. I guess a roofer is particularly in demand before a catalysm. Of course rainfall fills me with terror, because of my oft-flooded basement. But I checked the drain to be sure it was clear of leaves, and that’s about all I can do, except pray.
The crabby cat is unsettled, always a sign of God’s wrath. I wish I had a fireplace. And a sleeping bag.
To make matters worse, still loose in Cabbagetown somewhere is a psychopath who last week stabbed a defenceless woman to death with a serrated knife.
But – my doors are locked. A few candles and flashlights are on the counter, lots of food in the fridge; CBC’s “Ideas” is nattering about something about God right now, I don’t know what. “How is God in Himself?” he asks. Who the hell knows? The glass beside me seems to be filled with a burgundy-coloured liquid. My mother is safe in her retirement residence; I hope my kids are dry. I hope everyone is dry. Stay dry, people. Ira Glass would make a great story out of this crazy hurricane, and we can too.
