Bat Kol

Bat Kol

What’s that exquisite word I’m looking for? Ah yes, pococurante. I am not the least bit galled when confronted with the level of accused pretension my pilgrimage garnered. It matters very little to me what others think of my packing a small bag and setting off for Montreal, Little Portugal to be precise, in honour of an artist that filled my creative life with bourne, charging the boundless aim of my capabilities. My trip, despite being in search of an idol’s final resting place, denotes a sublimely joyful and peaceable moment in time. What’s that other delicious word? The one to perfectly ascribe to the trek. Ah yes, halcyon.

Prior to my departure, I fell bored. Begrudgingly succumbing to the monotonous humdrum of waking each morning, toiling nine to five then returning home to meticulously dust bookcases. All of which are in perfect authorial alphabetical order. Creative pursuits were devilishly evasive, my appetite nil, my heart unfulfilled. It was a deep internet dive that inspired my mission. I arrived, after hours of mindless perusing, to a link hosted by CBC. It answered an unplanned prayer. The remedy to my malaise: time away. A quiet retreat. To fill the well. Browse, on foot, by way of a detailed walking tour of the earthly place a beloved and fallen artist lovingly called home.

I arrived in Montreal on an amiable flight, early dawn, an autumn morning. The cloying sun offered the city a clandestine suppleness, just before it was fully awake, and the avenues filled with bustle. I hailed a taxi to my accommodations, a charming Air B&B, spacious and bright with a private terrace. Austere with a hint of whimsy. Perfection. It suited my needs. A place to lay my hat, and a desk for writing. First order of business, coffee. Something to go with the fig-cheddar bun I purchased from a hide-away bakery for breakfast en route. The sleek galley kitchen housed a Nespresso machine. It was good in a pinch before my adventure’s official start.

That first day, ah, magnificent. One foot in front of the other, my scarf knotted ardently around my neck. Mine eyes feasted. Mine lungs exorcised by fall’s crisp waft, taking long languid breaths to exhale lazily. All at once, I felt airy and parched. I ducked inside a little bistro for a nip.  I chose a window seat, atop a narrow yet sturdy pew, and sipped a concoction made of tequila, Cointreau, agave syrup, lime, orange, and citrus salt. One glass. Two. I drank. I mused. And, because I imbibed, hunger struck. I lingered to indulge. Fresh oysters served with mignonette, michelada, and chamoy. And then, with a warm belly, I was off.

Quincaillerie Azores’ was a frequent haunt for the fallen. I stood inside and wondered what sundry things might line a receipt deep into the silk of his jacket pocket: hand-held tools, keys, locks, fasteners, hinges, clamps, thimbles, chains, utensils, plumbing provisions, paint cans, paint brushes, housewares? The possibilities endless, and then the wonder of what he’d do with his purchase, what he fixed or created or threw in a drawer for a later date. My imagination, rampant in that moment. The walking map was correct when it boasted the corner store rife with hardware, had a generous assortment of Portuguese earthenware. To preserve my visit, I bought a small piece to carry home and place as a memento on the bookcase housing works by writers whose last names begin with C. A small ornamental bowl, I knew would eventually fill up with pocket change.

I intended to pass by his homestead at the end of my visit as an official bon voyage and a thanks for the dance nod, but I found myself unable to delay. I stopped, awed, in front of his residence, 28 Rue de Vallieres. A single tear dropped and rested on my cool cheek. I envisioned the grey limestone, that sorrowful November day, converted into a place of worship, muted candles, heaps of fresh flowers, and mournful messages mounting in commemoration. I took refuge in Parc du Portugal across the street. Found a sturdy bench to sit and reflect. It has been said he preferred comfortable slippers as shoes. How many times had he tread across these pathways, scuffing toward any given Glory? Sitting to work out the poetic mechanics of gentle soliloquies full of dark humility, glorious works he left behind. The simple brilliance of the reverie swelled an emotional lump in my throat. Still, in the shadow of his genius, a tremendous blessing. The bench was the edge of the earth. I lost track of time there. A park forged to commemorate Portuguese immigrants in search of a new life. I took several photos of the quaint summer pavilion, and of the gates and fountains comprised of glamorous glazed tiles. I had a nagging desire to stay but my physical hunger championed inactivity.

For dinner, as per the walking tour map, I sidled into Moishe’s Steakhouse. According to local lure, it’s a Montreal institution. The meal I enjoyed cost almost as much as a night’s stay at my Air B&B. Alas, it had to be part of itinerary, so I did not deviate nor dissuade myself by worrying about vacation economics. As there were so many to choose from on the extensive wine list, I asked my server to surprise me, something red. He did not disappoint. There were hints of rich chocolate and deep plum. I sat languorously, legs crossed with a crisp napkin across my lap so as not to spill the delivered hors d’oeuvre, succulent shrimp cocktail, on my wool slacks. A steakhouse it was but I am not one for red meat, so I opted for Alaskan Black Cod with grilled oyster mushrooms, spinach, and potato latkes. Sinfully delicious. While I digested both my meal and my surroundings, I nursed a hellishly fragrant cup of coffee. The scene then begged for the accompaniment of a cigar. One that would impart a creamy, buttery flavor with notes of cocoa, wood, and toasted bread. I had one such after a poetry reading with friends. The memory of its slow burn and deliberate upward smoke curl, made my mouth water.

I shuffled back to my Air B&B, feeling abundant and melancholic. Inside, I shrugged off the coldness that infiltrated the evening’s wind, hung my hat, and sat at the desk to write. Wholly inspired by the day. This is the poem that materialized before I retired for the evening:

All Possible Calm

I mulled

gazing the skylight

all hours I gathered

& steadied myself

elegant

& intent

pen poised

notebook open

page blank

in all possible calm

determined

to compose a

dust

jacket proclamation

worthy of discussing

with you over wine

in a five-star hotel bar

for first rate writers

            shy to admit I

require your sublime

assurance before I am

able to write another

                        word

I awoke with purpose. Sunrise lush and radiant with autumn’s gilded palette. The city enveloped me as one of its own the second my black patent shoes clipped the sidewalk stone. It was too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, so I acceded to the lure of decadent confections. An extravagant storefront display enticed me in with the pledge of sugar. It did not disappoint although it took far longer than it should have to choose. I, in the end, opted for a generous share of grapefruit pistachio layer cake. It towered sumptuously over the mille-feuilles and eclairs, tasted twice as good. I required something of heft in my belly before finding my way to Mt. Royal Boulevard to Shaar Hashomayim Congregation Cemetery; the final resting place of my idol, the sole intent for my excursion. I found myself stood before a handsome stone, befit for a mensch. A visitor before me placed an impeccable bushel of mini mums in esteem, a beautiful cushion of seasonal colors in shades of deep red, burnt orange, vivid yellow, pallid peach, and snow white. I knelt, in respect for the man inside of the earth, buried humbly in an unadorned pine box close to family, laid to rest in a traditional Jewish rite. From my pocket, I pulled out a prayer in the form of one of his very own poems. One, I hope, wherever in the vastness of the universe his enlightened spirit roamed, he stopped to hear. Paused to smile at my offering:

I lost my way.

I forgot to call your name.

The raw heartbeat against the world

And the tears were for my lost victory.

But, you are here.

you have always been here.

The world is all-forgetting,

and the heart is a rage of directions,

but your name unifies the heart,

and the world is lifted up into its place.

Blessed is the one who waits in the

travelers heart for his turning.

O, I wept. I guarded my inexorable tears with my chin tucked into my chest, the wide brim of my hat tugged tight enough to protect mine eyes. I could not linger; I was overcome with emotion. I did not expect to be taken over in such a deep and profound way. And so, I bid him adieu. Regretfully. I just couldn’t bear the thought of being found on bended knee, bawling like a baby. I required comfort. Food of some sort. Something of note. I took the advice of a passerby to take a late lunch at Schwartz’s, the oldest deli in Canada. I hailed a taxi to the famed Montreal landmark since 1928. The passerby alerted me that I may have to wait in line for an extended period of time to be served but I walked straight in, took a seat at the counter, and before I knew it, there was a towering smoked meat sandwich teetering in front of me complete with a gargantuan dill pickle and heaping dish of coleslaw. Between doleful sips of Coke and bites of lunch, I continued to flick rogue tears from mine eyes before they had cause to fall. He is in every atom of the city. Every breath of air. And what’s more, while I paid the kind folk for their abundance, ‘So Long Marianne’ sounded on the radio. One of my fellow white-haired counter patrons perked up at the song. His shoulders straightened, a smile formed, and between bites of his meal, he hummed along to the treasured lyrics. Proudly. A purr of honour. It wasn’t too long after, I was back at my Air B&B, equal parts full of food and flounder. I dove under the covers for a siesta. Rest was necessary to regain my composure for an evening of live music. I hoped.

I arose after only an hour or so, had a long shower, ironed my favorite shirt, dressed in my finest outfit and hopped into a taxi. In very broken French, asked the driver where I might find a bit of good live music. He replied in English blanketed it with a thick French strum, “I know jus’ ze place! You will need to wear your coat though.” He let me off in front of Jardin Nelson, a few days shy of closing for winter. A seasonal garden style bistro-type spot. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was in the mood for a hot drink and rhythmic jazz and ended up with a pitcher of melon sangria and a meal I won’t soon forget. Jackfruit Poke.  Green jackfruit, marinated in spicy sesame and soy sauce, with avocado, edamame beans, cucumber, lettuce, jasmine rice, vegetables, nori, wakame, gari, spicy vegan mayo, and peas – a direct quote from their menu. I wrote it down on a scrap of paper for blogging purposes. I first chose the brie fondue with pesto and pine nuts, then changed my mind to the duck leg confit but I have a soft spot for jackfruit. It was divine. I missed out on the jazz trio. They were late for their gig and my hands started to go numb from the cool temps and the sangria. Tipsy, I stumbled out onto the street in search anything else. A busker, a dead ringer for a young Tom Waits, with his battered guitar case open and a spray of pocket change across the fuzzy purple interior asked if I had any requests. “First We Take Manhattan”, I cooed, the scent of melon wafting from my tongue. Tom Waits grinned, “Ooo la la, Monsieur Cohen, ah?” He leaned closer, “Don’t tell anyone … but I prefer version Jennifer Warrens do.” And with that, he broke into song. I joined tentatively at first, but the liquor found its way to all of my cortexes and soon my voice was soaring with his in unison, “I’m guided by a signal in the Heavens/I’m guided by this birthmark on my skin/I’m guided by the beauty of our weapons/First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin …”

I woke the next morning with no knowledge of how I made it back to my Air B&B. My head, akin to a kick drum sufficiently rocked, threatened to roll. I accosted the Nespresso machine as if we the last thing I’d ever do. I sat out on the private terrace, overlooking the sweep of the city, mid-morning, balled up in a bulky sweater, and sipped. The fresh air slowly started to make me feel more human than human. As the cobwebs cleared, so did my memory. My recall revealed an extended performance with Tom Waits – Dylan’s ‘Like A Rolling Stone’, Bowie’s ‘Heroes’, anyone’s version of ‘Stand by Me’, Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. It all came flooding back. My customary posturing did not prevail. I, uncharacteristically, let loose, as they say. That had to be remedied. It is not that I’d ever see Tom Waits again so my perfected reputation was not in peril, it’s the simple fact I allowed my very tailored and restrained self to run amok. I confess, it felt extraordinary. Alas, I feel more comfortable in my skin buttoned up and discreet. Reserve. Ostentatious. Thus, on my last day in Montreal city, I bent back into my true self, and set off for home.

My morning flight was delayed so after a quick stop for a few extra cups of coffee, and osso bucco breakfast poutine with cheddar biscuits, I spent the rest of my wait at the Montreal Holocaust Museum. I was quite taken with Edith Gluck’s story. She donated an object of note in 2010, what is titled ‘A Clandestine Cookbook’. During her imprisonment in the Lippstadt concentration camp in Germany, she compiled two hundred recipes, all written in pencil on beige and pink paper that came from the munitions factory she forced to work in 12 hours per day. From memory she recorded many of the meals she prepared before the war and called on her fellow inmates to contribute. Together, they used this act of resistance to maintain their humanity and preserve their cultural history. The booklet, written in Hungarian, bound together with orange thread also from the factory, had to be hidden under the ground. And, since it was written in Hungarian, if found by the German soldiers, it would be deemed a diary and elicit a severe beating. Her bold efforts took my breath away. I stared at the aged pages for a long time, imagining these brave women whispering ingredients and instructions to Edith who scratched them quietly into the pilfered paper. A guide called Vilma in the museum shared the most horrendous fact, music was used to admonish prisoners. Nazis consistently directed captives to sing while marching or exercising. It was done as to mock, humiliate, and discipline. Inmates who dared disobey or didn’t know the song demanded only gave the SS an excuse for severe arbitrary lashings. Vilma told me, “If you did not know song, beaten. If you sang too soft, beaten. If you sang too loud, beaten. SS, ack, savages!” Luckily, the conversation ended on a positive note. Vilma, while straightening her name tag on the lapel of her tweed coat told me, “As you well know from Edith’s book, the prisoners were resourceful. They also composed and performed songs written inside of the camps, a survival technique as a means of psychological resistance, you see. Music then, was a means of survival and an instrument of terror for the SS. Some good, but mostly bad.” In that instant, I knew the second I arrived home, I’d order everything Amazon sold about this dreadful period of history. More knowledge, necessary. I became transfixed with their very human stories in the face of such adversity. I berated myself for knowing so little. Vilma’s parting words were, “No worry, you don’t deny Holocaust happened. If you did, then we have problem.”

All the way to the airport, with courageous holocaust survivors on my mind, I could hear my idol’s voice inside, still circling me in his city, caroling, “And let the Heavens hear it/The penitential hymn/Come healing of the spirit/Come healing of the limb …” And, I didn’t mention the mural of him, or me standing street level, craning my neck at his artful greatness nine stories high on the Cooper Building. That happened somewhere between my repentant hangover and Edith Gluck. And the, in the heart of the city, another piece of public artwork in the form of a handsome mural on Crescent Street, 1,000 square meters. I saw both, photographed them, tipped my hat, and bid him farewell. I arrived in a city I’d never been to before in search of his resting place, to pay my respects, and I departed with an indescribable yen. A strange ache. As if I were leaving something or someone precious behind. And then, I suppose I was. It also occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t something being left behind but a reminder that in my years, I’ve not done anything of note, surely nothing to warrant a universe size mural to lord over an entire city or to have moved other human beings so much they’d pack a small bag and set off on a whim just to sit grave-side, to be near. The experience only rivaled that of seeing him perform live. Once. In a whole lifetime of worship. The man, aged like a fine wine, had more energy than I’ll ever have. He was sharp and witty and prolific, performed encore after encore. Jaw-dropping competence. I aspire to be so Zen, as fertile, agile. At any age.

Many friends, assorted colleagues, and select family members scoffed at my indulgent jaunt. As I mentioned, I am in no way incensed by their assessment. I can’t expect them to understand. I am an Artist. I use unscented soap. I like everything in their right place. I enjoy the elegant curve of exquisitely formed flowers. I drink bourbon before bed. I shine my shoes. I often sport a pocket square in my breast pocket. I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. But I feel. And ache. Love. Suffer. And then, it all goes on a canvas, into a song, or on blank page. While I hold most of them dear, dull accountants and soccer moms cannot comprehend the artistic temperament, the need, the appreciation of others who have come before. I need not have to explain further.

It was hell, it was swell, it was fun.

And, who am I fooling? Surely not myself. I love pretension. I am pretension personified. Proudly. Except, for those few drunken tunes with Tom Waits, I was as free as a bird, soaring high until I came face to face with Bat Kol, the divine voice that reveals the will of God. Or, as it were, the anointed voice of my hero.

***

I’ve been pecking at this for a good long time. It’s not a perfect piece of writing but I had the most delicious time creating something full of intentional affectation and heart. I would really love to set out for Montreal to visit Leonard Cohen’s resting place. So, until I am able, this little ditty will have to do.

In (intentional) propinquity,

Nic

Efficient Little Stanza

Forgive me. I know it is Remembrance Day but I woke up with swollen eyes and a heavy heart, going to bed with the knowledge poetry’s Holy Grail had died. It has been a tough year, 2016, for fallen artists, important ones, but this socked me so hard I could hardly sleep. It likens to the emotions felt when I heard Gord Downie was afflicted. I knew Leonard wasn’t well but I hung on his promise that he’d live forever, the same way I always believed of my father.

I was up early. Brewed myself a cup of coffee in my ‘cup of longing’ (a souvenir I covet from his show in Halifax a few years back that changed my whole entire insides), and started writing. I apologize, as I am not as articulate today as I can and should be. I am just heartsick and saddened. All of the tributes flooding the internet helps, recalling Adam Cohen’s uplifting show at The Carleton where he performed ‘So Long, Marianne’ and I wept profusely out of my left eye the whole time refusing to breathe or else I’d blubber, shaking his hand and talking briefly about his father and his own talents: all helps.

Leonard Cohen, at 82, left the table but left behind a body of work and a resonating influence that will last even long after I’m gone. It has been such a wondrous journey, following him, learning from him, listening to him, celebrating him.

Au revoir, fallen star. I love you.   

**

Efficient Little Stanza

you left the table

I remain

under fedora brim

topping up

two fingers of rot gut

whiskey

with brackish tear-jewels

last we met

I was in a state

you reminded

me to remain

reflective

& unburdened

to make art

to take my good time

you smoked cigarettes

I glugged robust coffee

I wept  

                & you laughed

I was disheveled

& you of course

                always

dressed for ecstasy

our last meeting

                is tied up in an

efficient little stanza

                handwritten

in a moleskine journal

                for safe keeping

now

                you’ve left the table

I remain

                your old pin-striped

grey flannel jacket

                draped over my shoulders

your poetry on my tongue

               

birds on the wire

                did not warn me

you would be gone

                when I arrived

                so long, love

it’s been nice knowin’ ya

**

Remembering my literary hero today as well as all of those who have fought for our freedoms. So many emotions today. So many.

In propinquity and in Flanders Field,

Nic

Je Est Un Autre

Je Est Un Autre

I am another

willfully opaque

unable to choose

between

an Olivetti typewriter or

a leopard skin pillbox hat

I am another

where you are not

                between

the present moment or

a place of grave vacancy

I am another

better than words

more lovely than

                a dream of

                serene wiles

I am another

a minute vertical line

counterpoint

to the void of course

I am another

here only to

translate the surge

                of           

arbitrary signs

               

**

There are nods in this poem to men I greatly admire: a recent Nobel Prize winner, the Senior Cohen, and someone who this summer, united a Canada I believe in and love, through music and compassion. Poetry, for me, is my outlet, it’s my vehicle, it’s my happy place - where today I have encapsulated three venerable human beings in the medium we each call home.

In propinquity,

Nic

Madoc Says Magic Is Afoot

Madoc Says Magic Is Afoot

Madoc says

magic is afoot

to appeal

deadened hues

away from the

oppressors tongue

to cull poems

from the Aegean Sea

to render God

alive

                above

humid nimbus clouds

enough to make a

brooding genius shudder

Madoc says

magic is afoot

because

Leonard Cohen

read aloud

                a verse

that left him

slouched into a corner

recounting a lone

bellow of wistfulness

Madoc says

magic is afoot

in a collection

                the

author’s  name

barely visible

                on the

thin spine

a book of revelations

bought and sold

for one single

line of truth

etched with

                a ballpoint pen

by a reliable witness

Madoc is always

right

**

I’ve reading ‘Startle and Illuminate – Carol Shields on Writing’ – it’s been a comfort to pursue her collected advice and to, in some small way, spend time with her again the way I did inside of all of her other books, stories, and poems. I have been keeping my eyes, ears; heart and mind open for an opportunity to begin a new short story. I can feel it bubbling somewhere under the surface. I have started and stopped SO many stories over the last year or so. I attribute it to Liz Gilbert’s assertion that if the story did not materialize, then it wasn’t my story to tell, the idea will pass on to some other waiting writer. I like that imagery. That thought. I’d hate for them to never be told so I hold on to the hope it will weed up into a comrade’s think bank and flourish. The poetry has been (as always) a saving grace but I want to sink my teeth into a story.

For now, I wait patiently. Madoc insists magic is afoot …

And obviously, this poem was Leonard Cohen inspired.

In propinquity,

Nic

This is the Song to Calm the Crazy Master of Your Heart

I maintain that music sustains me, it is my form of prayer, how I measure time and place, music is oxygen, music is life and love and longevity.  It inspires me to write, rocks my core, brings me to tears and raises me up to religious heights.  For someone who can’t play an instrument and his highly uncoordinated, I am a slave to every note, every pulsing beat, taking each waltz to the edge of everywhere; music is everything.  Music solves the sunset, muses the moonlight.  It’s hard to not wax poetic about the most beautiful and unifying language on the planet.

I have attended a plethora of shows this year, discovered new and exciting artists and value each experience for the energy and stimulus I garnered. 

Here’s a loose list of many of 2014’s musical highlights:

Matt Mays – NYE @ Casino NS w/ Carmen Townsend, Big Red Festival in PEI and at The Shore Club in Hubbards, NS.

Blue Rodeo - Halifax Metro Center

Adam Baldwin CD release party with Sam Cash & The Romantic Dogs - Seahorse Tavern

Wintersleep/USS/The Trews  – The Marquee

Matt Epp – The Carleton

Royal Wood – St Matthew’s Church

City and Colour – Halifax Metro Center

The Stanfields (acoustic) – The Carleton

July Talk – Alderney Landing for Canada Day, Big Red Festival in PEI

Sam Roberts – Alderney Landing for Canada Day

Ben Caplan, Alderney Landing for Canada Day

Drive By Truckers – Big Red Festival in PEI

Platinum Blonde – Casino NS

Brian Byrne – The Carleton

Gloryhound CD release w/ The Motorleague – Seahorse Tavern

Dave Marsh & True Love Rules, The Navy Brats – Jacob’s Lounge & The Carleton for HUFF

The Killers – Big Red Festival in PEI

Nashville Pussy w/ Fifth on the Floor – Seahorse Tavern

Dropkick Murphys – Cunard Center

Ashley MacIsaac – The Carleton

Dylan Guthro & Mo Kenney – Casino NS

Dwight Twilley (soundcheck) – The Carleton for HUFF w/ an honourable mentionable hug from Garland Jeffreys

Adam Cohen – The Carleton

My list is missing bits and bobs I am sure, things like remarkable Saturday nights at The Carleton with The Carletones etc etc but what I really want to discuss is the last entry on my list, Adam Cohen.

For those of you born under a rock, Adam Cohen is the song of Leonard Cohen but stands beautifully on his own two feet as a singer/songwriter/performer.  While he acutely resembles his father and has the same awe-inspiring voice, his songs are all his own.  It’s true, there is homage present to the music he was born into but there is a definite tone of originality and songs that express what he so deeply wishes to share with his audience.

I’m not sure I have attended a show at The Carleton with such palpable energy, a loving energy that boasted a sheer veil of faith and hope, creativity and grace.  Adam took the stage with his outstanding band and straight out of the gate, just from the ambiance of humanity circulating through the room, from person to person, a tiny and constant tear streamed from my left eye.  I tried very hard to stop it but an overwhelming wash of emotion was too powerful to defeat. 

His stories of his family and his father, his sweet sense of humour and his songs made for a beautiful evening.  He speaks like a poet, performs like a rock star and accepts his accolades with a humble heart.  When he played a new song from his new record called ‘Love Is’ he had the whole bar singing it with him and those as you know are moments I live for; harmony among humans, unity in one voice.  It fills me up and it pours out of my silly face.  He continued to overthrow my heart when he finished with Dad Cohen’s ‘So Long Marianne’.  If I was permitted and it wouldn’t made me look like a complete wiener I’d have let the tears come like Niagara Falls.  It was really hard to sing along without my eyes bursting and then my concert company would have clocked me for crying.  Thankfully her back was to me for the duration of the show.  I was singing ‘Now so long Marianne, it’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again …’ but not at the top of my lungs like I wanted because it would have come out in sobs.  This is how I know that the time he shared with his last night will resonate for a long time to come.  After the encore I made a mad dash for a mascara check and to catch my breath.

I had the opportunity to shake his hand, compliment his artist and offer my gratitude for making my Saturday perfect.  He spoke very highly about his father’s command of the English language and his elegance.  I told Adam Cohen I loved the words he spoke about Leonard but they truly mirror back at him in his own right.  His handshake was firm and warm and appreciative.  It was an honour to look a Poet in the eye and speak about words and music and for it to have meaning.  It was a small but mighty exchange but I can’t tell you what it meant to me.

For me, Adam Cohen, who sold out every single seat for three nights straight, was the BEST show I’ve seen to date at The Carleton.  It runs dangerously close to every Matt Epp show I’ve seen there because his shows and music and artistic intention moves me in the very same way. 

I am compelled to spend today writing, musing, thinking creatively, counting blessings and filling my ears with beautiful music.

Music like this:

In propinquity,

Nic

Where The Possibilities of Humiliation & Failure are Ample

Where The Possibilities of Humiliation & Failure are Ample

it is a dangerous arena, love

an unruly action, to love

a reverie to submit to, to be loved

you sing for them, your lovers

we read to them, our paramours

they trounce us, the Muses

in love’s amphitheater

a procession to up-end all illusions

pageantry of strange beauties

to prepare you for the firing squad

to show you how to dodge the bullets

to set you up to face heart starvation

it is a dangerous arena, love

it is a precarious quandary, love

it is unwarranted mischief, love

love

the place where the promise of

humiliation and failure are ample

exposed hearts be wary, take heed

eager accomplices, become ensnared

in the madness, to endure forever

**

Something more inspired by the one and only Leonard Cohen.  The title of this poem is a direct quote from the interview he did with Jian Ghomeshi.  I stumbled onto it after learning Ghomeshi will be a headliner for this year’s Word On The Street book and magazine fair, reading from his critically acclaimed book, 1982 (which I STILL need a copy of but will wait until August 6^th for the trade paperback edition to come out).  Excited by the news and penciling the date in my calendar so I don’t miss it, I browsed Jian’s website and found the interview.  Mid-way through I started writing this little poem, another little writing exercise to help keep my head above water.  I’m slowly moving back into my prose.  I wrote a little more on ‘Large-Hearted’ yesterday.  I wasn’t feeling especially well in the afternoon and started to daydream about being home, curled up and resting when my lonely brain stumbled on a revelation for the story.  It came as a wee flash so I did the responsible thing; I opened up the document and started typing despite feeling light-headed and queasy.  I was still at my work desk so I was required to be lucid and awake, keeping busy was the best way to distract myself from the yuck.  I’m pretty sure that I have completed the framework of the story and found its ending but I now have the task of fleshing it out and editing before it can be shared.   Watch this space.  In the meantime, the poetry is free-flowing.  I’ve built up a bit of a reserve now.  Most of them still need a bit of work and will be blogged shortly.

I’m still not feeling one hundred percent myself today and it’s raining like a bitch outside, it’s been wet all week in fact and there’s no sign of sun until at least Sunday if we’re lucky.  This summer’s weather has been undesirable.  Between week long stretches of nothing but rain that morph into record-breaking heatwave-ish days, it’s been fairly uncomfortable.  When it rains, outdoor activities are limited and when it’s so hot and humid that you can’t breathe, outdoor activities are also limited.  I long for a nice stretch of warm, true summer weather, sunshine, a warm breeze and enjoying it, outdoors.  Is that too much to ask for?  If any of you have an in with Mother Nature, can you see what you can do about my request?  I’d be most grateful.

Perhaps I’ll peek more at ‘Large-Hearted’ after this blog is complete, since it’s fairly quiet on the work front.  You watch, I say that now but as soon as I turn to my pages, it’ll get bonkers busy.  Murphy’s Law.

Enjoy your day.  Pay a kindness forward.

In propinquity,

Nic

A Thousand Kisses Deep - An Evening with Leonard Cohen

My bucket list is one item shorter.  Leonard Cohen played a sold out show last night in Halifax, almost four hours of his best work accompanied by a band and their gorgeous talents collected from all over the world.

The stage was set like a European dream.  Lush Persian-style rugs, red velvet chairs for the musicians and long white curtains cascading down and throughout the show turned all sorts of colors by the ambient and precise lighting.  He also had two large video screens for those far away from the stage.  Where we were sitting, in the nosebleeds, the show was projected on the white walls so we could see.  My seats may have been high up but we were next to the stage so I could see just fine, he was just a bit smaller.  It didn't matter much to me because I was sharing air with a literary hero and it served as a defining moment for me.  I've seen hundreds of shows but this one was miraculously different - it was life changing.  The pristine sound of a finely tuned band, Cohen's sub-baritone husk and his words, that poetry.

I was submerged in a quiet ecstacy while my lovely childhood friend struggled to keep her eyes open.  I commend her for going with me to something that wasn't quite her cup of tea for me to be blessed by the presence of a hero.  That's a good friend.

The show had so many incredible moments but they all blended seamlessly together with ease quelling any anxieties that raced through my body from my daily life.  In those soft hours, nothing else truly mattered except for Leonard's deep crooning and the intricate design of his poetics.

He is a tremendous performer.  Grateful for his audience he refers to as 'friends', respectful of his handsome band and dedicated to his extensive and extraordinary body of work.  He opened his almost four hour show with 'Dance Me To The End Of Love' and built an impressive tower of song until intermission.  The defining moment of the show for me, when the tears came streaming down, was his stunning spoken word delivery of  'A Thousand Kisses Deep'.  His band exited the stage, Cohen stood in a bright white spotlight and whispered the lines.  And of course, his launch into the universally beloved 'Hallelujah' was another emotional moment.  Perhaps one of the most iconic and celebrated songs every written.  The only other thing next to the perfection of Jeff Buckley's heartbreaking cover of the song that could ever compare is hearing Leonard Cohen perform it live.  A single moment really can alter your person, re-align your soul. cleanse your spirit.  

Cohen treated the Halifax audience to three encores and if he'd been allowed he probably would have played on.  It was a beautiful night and I not only walked away richer in spirit but with my arms full of amazing merch.  I rarely buy merchandise at concerts but last night I bought the program, a coffee mug and a limited edition Moleskine notebook with Cohen embossed on the front in gold and the quote 'stop writing everything down'.  The notebook was a bit pricey but I didn't just want it, I needed it.  I needed it because it is akin in a sweet way to the first few lines of my new short story denote a Moleskine notebook and its importance to my character.  In a silly way that only I would associate, it seemed like a sign.  I have learned hard lessons about following and not following signs over the past three years and this one was a sign worth following.  I can't wait to start a new story and start using my book to fill up with notes and ideas, some old and some new.  Maybe even a few borrowed.

I also was in love with his audience.  I bantered with several concert-goers and they shared their Cohen stories of their youth and mused about him and Joni Mitchell and other music that peppered the soundtrack of their lives.  And I loved seeing small kids with their parents taking their seats.  What an incredibly profound and culturally rich experience for them.  I recall one little girl holding her Mom's hand, wearing a pretty dress, black paten leather shoes and leotards carrying a long-stemmed red carnation in her hand.  It moved me.  The whole night, from the fun dinner Colleen and I shared at Midtown Tavern before filing into the Metro Center to the pure power of the show, was perfect.  

Cohen mused he hopes this one isn't a farewell tour and I also hope for the same.  I would do that all over again in a heartbeat.  I hope he returns.

My bucket list is one item shorter but I feel like my humanness has deepened and I left the venue vastly different than when I entered.  For the better.

Thank you Leonard Cohen, for being my man last night.  A gentleman.  You are absolutely everything a hero is made of.

In propinquity,

Nic

My loot.

Writer's Room

(the newest 'rock wall' instillation - in progress)

I have a space.  A writing space.  And while it is currently without a working computer for all of my creative pursuits, it is my space.  My writing space is littered with things.  With books, music, photos, trinkets and momentos.  It's the museum of my life.  There is a little bit of everyone I love in this room, all of the things that have introduced me to joy, inspired me, elevated me and let me down.  This is my space, it is primarily where I create and where my most precious collections are.  Yes, of late I've been writing at work but it's more about finding the best use of my down time than it is about ignoring my safe, creative haven.

When I am in this room (that is currently without curtains but gives me a great view of a brand new window where a protective pewter dragonfly hang) I think, I sing and pace and sulk and cry.  I laugh in here, I make a mess sometimes and other times it's so pristine that I beam with pride.  When I am in this room I am safe and creative and I am my true self.  I know to some it looks like a hot mess but it somewhere I truly breathe and brainstorm.  There is so much to catch my eye, to cull ideas and the comforts of those who make me happiest and those times we shared, shows, parties, weddings, births and break-ups - it is my artist's home.

Tonight is a bucket list event.  I'll be seeing Leonard Cohen in concert.  He's a literary hero and I am beside myself with excitement even though I'll be in the nosebleed section.  I can't wait to absorb all of that energy and then come home in an inspired haze and add his ticket stub to my wall.  Today is momentous.  It is happy.  It is something that means a great deal to me.  I strong-armed one of my oldest and dearest friends to accompany me.  Perhaps a little of that old-school charm and grace will seep into her skin and she'll come away a fan. ;)

If you should find yourself on my wall, know you are loved.  If you don't see yourself chances are you are somewhere on the other side of the room.  That wall is almost full but still needs work.  If you want me to love you, let me know.  There's always room in my heart.

Happy Leonard Cohen day to ME!  Happy Saturday to you all.  Wherever you end up, enjoy.  Don't forget to love your people and offer kindness into the universe so that it comes back to you.  That, is poetry.

In propinquity,

Nic

Letter To A Lost Love From A Tiny Knotted Heart

I was reading Irving Layton’s love poems, listening to a Leonard Cohen you-tube video ‘Come Healing’ drinking a steamy cup of double bergamot Earl Grey tea when this poem materialized.  The title came to me, equally inspired by a title of one of Layton’s poems and a small lyrics from The Hip’s ‘Fiddler’s Green’.  I mashed them together and started to write and I almost felt like it was impossible to stop but it had to end somewhere.  Interestingly enough, I started out peacefully and the more I wrote the angrier I got.  Perhaps there were some residual remnants of lost love I hadn’t considered when I put all of that away?  Nevertheless, it was an intense writing experience, to feel myself go from zero to angry, feeling it mounting, aching in my bones, spreading through my organs and flushing my flesh.  I went from a woman sipping tea to a gladiator ready to destroy but then with the mention of soup and the possibility of dessert soothed the rage and I retired the poem at just the right time.  It’s raw and unedited and out in the universe how.  It isn’t meant to be karmic or boastful or begrudging, just cathartic, serving as a reminder that I moved through some heart trauma and came out on the best side of a bad situation.  And while I will never fully understand the past, I wholeheartedly acknowledge that this moment is all that truly matters and the things that are to come.  Good things. 

 Letter To A Lost Love From A Tiny Knotted Heart

Irving Layton urged me to write to you

I was reluctant to cash in on old love’s dividends

I am just a timeworn poor poet whose only wealth

is the weight of words and I fear that I have

expended plenty of them in your precious name

for love for leaving for anger for sadness for forgiveness

words equivalent to the number of tears pooled on my pillow

undeserved exultation inexcusable passion unjustified umbrage

I am only writing to you because Irving Layton was adamant about it

I no longer wish for you or understand the unbridled attraction

I refuse to recall the fire of your lips nor the heat of your instinctive touch

nor the taste of your tongue and the few warm moments  composed

of madness or fever amplified by wine by denial by inflamed reason

Leonard Cohen mentioned we were nothing more than tenderness and irony

divided by naiveté plus deceit your trickery ensnaring me into your web

without the intention to love me feed me keep me safe from harm

in many ways now you are nothing more than an elapsed rhyme a cartoon

character a figment of my overactive imagination a pipe dream a ghost

Leonard Cohen told me that you would turn me away shun me when you were

finished toying with me sneering if you pass me by you are talented at

passing me over especially now that you read the book and did your research

to determine how Venus and Mars co-exist you can’t commit to anything

without reading how do it first or without a protective nudge you lack guts

you lack courage you lack freedom to be to live to rejoice without instruction

you are a boy full of fear held back by maternity by obligation to God by insecurity

I lack the desire to accept garnished affection I reject the notion that you broke

my heart into a million little pieces and scattered them so easily in one fell swoop

Irving Layton reminded me that my work has been praised by international critics,

acclaimed writers and has one prizes accolades stronger than your hatred for me

I cannot say how you came to loathe someone who loved you so sweetly

someone who would move Heaven and Earth to prevent you from slipping away

Leonard Cohen said if you ever came near me again I should push you off the

balcony of my high-rise and watch you fall in slow slow motion down down down

where you belong with the bugs and the snakes and the worms and the bottom feeders

from above looking down I will pose framed with a sense of purpose and audacity

and I will feel victorious just like you did looking down at me while I wept

Irving Layton said he would buy me a hot beverage and a hearty meal when I am finished

writing you this letter after I fold it slip it into an envelope seal it and send it off

I am going to sip a fragrant pot of earl grey tea and devour a bowlful of potato leek soup

laugh and write and live a full life and if I’m lucky Leonard Cohen will buy me dessert.

**

For the rest of my Wednesday afternoon, I plan to drink more tea, work and in my down time, peck away a little more at my new story that I can now reveal the title of, ‘Half Windsor Knot’.  I’m excited to see where it takes me.  I’m three and a half pages in and I know my stories don’t tend to be long and I don’t put any expectations or caps on word count. I just like to see where they go and who I meet.  I will keep you updated on my progress.

Dinner tonight with some friends I haven’t seen in a really long time.  I so look forward to sitting with them and catching up.

Today’s kindness challenge, get in touch with someone you haven’t seen in a long time, give them a call, text them or drop a line.  However it is best for you.  You’ll be glad you did and it will delight them to know you thought of them today for no other reason than just to say hello.

In propinquity,

Nic

It Has To Be Perfect

Blue Rodeo blew me away on Friday night.  With such a rich and vibrant musical history behind them and 25 years in, they still have a long melodic road ahead.  It was a last minute decision to buy tickets despite a longing to see this show.  I’m glad we went with our whim and snagged the last two tickets to sit side by side.  It was a full house, all ages but every single person in that arena knew every single word to every single song and that is the beauty of this band.

Blue Rodeo’s music is a precise blend of country twang and Canadian roots rock.  Their songwriting, ballads in particular are both crafted and delivered in such a fashion that when they are pulling on your heart-strings, they are also pulling tears from your eyes.  Jim Cuddy has one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard.  When he sings I am often covered in goose-bumps and that is only amplified when he’s live, in front of me, filling the room with melodious gold.

Friday’s show was their Halifax stop on their 25^th Anniversary tour.  That means, when they started out I was somewhere around fifteen years old.  Hard to recall a time when Blue Rodeo wasn’t present on the soundtrack of my life.  I used to sit with my cassette player, headphones on and suspend into their songs.  Get lost in them and allow them to take me over.   I loved them from the start and they have only gotten better, more refined and lovelier. 

I mused to my best friend on the drive home from the show how their music makes me feel incredibly proud to be Canadian.  While I firmly believe their music has the ability to reach across boarders and oceans, there’s a tiny secret riddled in their music that only someone Canadian can truly translate and appreciate.  They are one of the greatest gifts our vast country has given and judging by the previews of a few new songs, their next record will only be another extension of their importance and presence in the scope of Canadian music.

As always, the most impressive moments in any life show for me is when the audience sings with or out-sings the band.  ‘Lost Together’ remains my all-time favorite Blue Rodeo song and it was absolutely earth-shattering to hear a sea of people sing the whole thing in unison (making it the most moving point of the evening for me.  Jim Cuddy’s impassioned rendition of ‘After The Rain’ could have gone on for the duration of the show and I wouldn’t have minded at all, it was poignant and soul satisfying.  Who needs a house of God when all of your prayers are answered in song?

I was thinking about this yesterday, in less than six months I will have seen so many incredible shows, all Canadian gold.  Let’s recount:  The Sheepdogs, Yukon Blonde, Big Sugar, Gloryhound, Blue Rodeo, Tragically Hip and yes kids, yours truly is FINALLY going to see the one and only Leonard Cohen.  Impressive list for a short period of time, yes?  It is widely known that both Gord Downie and Leonard Cohen are both HUGE influences for me.  Heroes.  That I will share air with both of them this year is monumental.  I couldn’t be happier.  And in part, these two shows can only aid in putting me back in my happy place.  Personally, it’s been a long rocky road getting back to it but with the assistance of the written word, music and a better attitude, I am pretty much there.  Leonard’s show is a bucket list item for me.  I can’t wait to frame my ticket stub and display it on my rock wall.  Mission thoughtfully accomplished. 

I did a tiny bit of writing this weekend but nothing of the creative variety.  Along with another challenging task, I strung a few words together to help with a band bio for my brother’s upcoming gig at the Annual Tour Tech Party (which I’ll miss as it’s the same night of the Hip).  They are closing the main-stage this year being shared by Saga, a rock quintet from Oakville, Ontario whose song ‘On The Loose’ (for me) is their most notable song.  It’s a fantastic event, the Tour Tech Party, an AIDS fundraiser.  It’s well organized and a ton of fun.  Two stages, countless bands, lots of schmoozing and beer.  I’m really disappointed to miss it this year.  They’ll blow the roof off as only they can.

It’s a Monday, cold and windy here in Halifax.  Snow is looming along with frigid temperatures to last well into next weekend.  Time for a piece of poetry, word play to warm the bones.

It Has To Be Perfect

more time is required

to omit needless words

amend the text

sit on it

sleep on it

walk it around

&

read it again

new revisions

on an old story

additions

deletions

paragraph

changes in bold

highly subjective

possibly dishonest

irreconcilable ambivalence

editing

a head start

to suffering

**

Ahh, that felt good.

Oh, I forgot to mention, I received the third and final rejection from the Year Write submissions.  Upward and onward!  There’s always next time. 

Happy Monday, folks!

In propinquity,

Nic

PS - Did I mention that I am over the MOON about seeing Leonard Cohen!?  In case you didn't pick up on it, I am!

Hallelujah

This morning was one of those days where reading the newspaper was more a delight than a stress.  Of course, the first story I saw was unavoidable, Kate Middleton is expecting!  It was only a matter of time.  Before I could read any bad news, and Canadian news outlets seem to be rife with it, innocent children being killed, and political unrest … you get the idea.  But, I didn’t make it to any of those headlines because I came across an article that appealed to my inner geek.  To be truthful, I actually tend to get my good news first because I read the Arts section first.  This morning there was a wonderful article in The Chronicle Herald, ‘Malleable Hallelujah interpreted by many’ a piece that can only refer to one artist and one song, ‘Hallelujah’ by none other than Leonard Cohen.

Author Alan Light wrote a book, The Holy or The Broken: Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley and the Unlikely Assent of Hallelujah.  A song so profound, with such a long illustrious history of performances and renditions required an entire book on the subject.  I must have this.  It will be mine.  It details and deconstructs its genesis, its turbulent beginnings in 1984 when the poignant song was rejected all the way to its world-wide celebration.  Sounds like something I can get behind.  Have you ever heard the version recorded by the late Jeff Buckley?  It’s absolutely stunning, masterful and in his stylistic choir boy melodiousness, conjures emotion right up from the pit of my stomach and tears from my eyes simultaneously.  Of course it could also just be the brilliance of the song.  It matters little who is performing it, it always incites a similar reaction except that when Jeff Buckley’s voice sounds it’s more akin to a spiritual event.

‘Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?’

Timeless.  Extraordinary.  Poignant.  And can you even comprehend now that this song is so revered, that it was rejected right out of the gate?  Astounding.

Which brings me to this new poem that developed from thinking about Leonard Cohen:

Dirge

Dance me to the end of this poem my love

hold my gaze with your time-worn notions

rent out my battered core for benevolence

I no longer know how to read your thoughts.

We should rejoice at a hand’s light stoke

against a blazing cheek when the urge strikes

but you don’t really care for me, do you?

Writing this is nothing more than my subtle nature

rising to greet your lips when the song goes silent

but madness settled in to postpone the inevitable.

I still hear your voice sometimes when I dream

in full conscience and joy I retrieve you

beyond the periphery of mournful verse.

**

Today is Tuesday and is apparently the day of Nicole’s International Forgetfulness.  I left my house for work this morning without everything essential for me to make it through my allotted hours behind my desk.  In addition, I left my cell on the kitchen table as well as the stack of holiday greetings that needed to be mailed.  I ran back, two separate trips, to collect everything I needed and still managed to make it to where I needed to be on time and deposited the mail safely in the box.  Sheesh.  When your day starts out in a rush it seems to set the tone for the rest of it.  I feel like I have evened myself out a little bit.  If only the program I used for work would cooperate now.  It makes for very frustrating transactions when the tools needed to do your job aren’t sharp, you know?

I look forward to the end of my day, a Zumba class with friends and a good night’s sleep before my vacation day tomorrow.  No one should have to work on their birthday.

So long, Marianne.

In propinquity,

Nic