The Alleged Review wherein Ross Nervig reviews whatever he feels like reviewing.
It must’ve been like being defibrillated, that moment. Jettisoned into a waking reality by the power of electricity. From a deathlike sleep to the crisp state of small animal terror. When all of you, you’re every molecule, screeches: What!?
That’s better than anything, right? When Nature says, Snap-to, asshole!
Is this my favorite storm? Not by a long shot. I prefer the grand show of a thunderhead building over the lunar landscapes of eastern Wyoming or the thick cobalt waters of an ocean when a hurricane is going to slide over a seaboard. The sickly inertia of standing on a pedestrian bridge of a river that’s threatening to breach it’s levees and destroy my home. Under a lead blanket of rainclouds, I remember the smell of the buffalo wings the sandbagging volunteers were taking a break to eat and the water surging out of the street gutters and the rattling of the manhole covers. Or, less recent, my mother reading and rereading the same page of a children’s book to my sister and I in the storm cellar as a tornado slapped one side of our house with a coat of mud.
I listened to the rain pelt the roof above us. My girlfriend had slept through the entire event. She, warm beside me. Just the concept of “shelter” in a moment like this makes the whole trial & error history of architecture seem so brave and essential. Really, an unacknowledged frontier of comfort had to be tamed for moments like this.
For an instant, it felt like the storm had its monstrous face pressed to our roof. Like some sentient weather-beast, sniffing the roof for the flesh of a couple twentysomethings inside before moving to stalk around the skyscrapers. I have to give credit where credit is due. Something that huge sneaking up on you in the night & bringing its big wet meteorological hands together for a single giant CLAP: pretty cool.
Front page image by Andy Dickinson.