michael murray

The city had a strange, apocalyptic feel to it on Thursday.

I took the dog out for a walk early in the afternoon and the humidity was punishing. As we moved slowly down Queen Street, normally so vivid with life, everything seemed unnaturally still and quiet. Above us, two military helicopters sliced through the heavy air, circling again and again, keeping watch over the G20 summit.

The streets were practically deserted, and Jimmy Simpson Park was completely empty, and so Heidi and I took up residence in the outdoor hockey rink there, where we played fetch on the bleached concrete. The dog splashed happily through oily, warm puddles, fishing the ball out of the corners where little pockets of garbage had accumulated. We did this until I found a syringe, which quickly took away all of my enthusiasm.

I felt like I was living in a dangerous place, as if this was life during wartime.

While on the sidewalk heading home I got a phone call from Rachelle. She was excited, having just felt the earthquake tremors out at her office in Scarborough, and wanted to know if we had felt anything in the city. I hadn’t, but upon hearing the news experienced an immediate and deep sense of disquiet. It was weird, and the emptiness of the city just amplified that sensation.

An earthquake.

The ground heaving beneath your feet.

Family photographs rattling off the walls of my parent’s home back in Ottawa.

It’s humbling and dislocating, an event that makes you feel mortal and appropriately small in the face of an unknowable eternity that’s ever expanding around us.