Remembrance of Times I Got Lost
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This week's feature piece:
Remembrance Of Times I Got Lost
I thought I'd try a ‘travel piece’. The idea that I’m traveling still feels wrong, but I guess it’s accurate. One reckons changing locations every few weeks qualifies.
Meanwhile the headlines from home are like HEY HOW’S YOUR HIPPOCAMPUS BITCH.
I tried to find Leonard Cohen’s grave to pay my respects. His work has always meant a lot to me, from the first time I heard Concrete Blonde's 1990 cover of ‘Everybody Knows’, then discovered a record of his in my parents’ collection. Not long after, Johannsen and I learned we'd each been reading identical paperback copies of his Selected Poems 1956-1968. The poems were lurid and graceful and tailored for wordsy adolescent dorks like us. Least I could do is go stand over the spot where he's buried.
I set out on what the internet said was a twenty minute walk. The path was choked with snow and ice and I saw no way forward.
Then I learned he meant so much to the people of Quebec that they commissioned a mural for him. So I walked deeper into Mile End, the epicenter of culture and activity around here. Rue Duluth is the first street I remember walking down, the night I arrived. I needed groceries and I was extremely tired and didn’t know it yet but was about to be racked by Covid and in the frozen air I sidestepped the slippery spots the best I could. It was dark and kind of hazy and in windows of cafes and bars people were enjoying themselves.
I took the same route a few days ago in the sunshine. It was far less cold and there were street performers, clowns, a little puppet show and circus in a plaza. Most of the street was blocked off to traffic which automatically makes it my favorite. There are stretches like this all over town. Pedestrianism is normalized and not a crime. Unless, I've learned, you're anywhere near a gas station.
If this seems off track, it is. I didn’t find the mural. I wandered around for a long time and saw some interesting stuff and added a few impressions to my internal catalogue. Made a note to research the correct side of the sidewalk to walk on. I see no consistency, and it makes me feel like I’m in everyone’s way.
So I gave up on that and settled for his tombstone again, figuring it had to be accessible somehow.
Turns out it was just the one side of the street that had all the snow and ice; the other side was perfectly navigable. The neighborhood is quiet and fairly affluent, old brick homes with multiple bedrooms on a winding street facing woods that encircle the base of the mountain. Up the hill and ahead of me was a figure, stopping every few seconds to wave its arms around wildly. As I got closer this person looked like a lost festival attendee trying to find their friend by a concession tent.
I was relieved when they accosted someone else for directions.
‘How do I get to the top?' They pointed up at the mountain. ‘I’m from Winnipeg.’
And for the first and maybe last time I felt a little bit of pride that I knew more, but not much, than a Canadian about how to get around Montreal.
Further up the road was a cemetery. Inscriptions in the gate stonework told me this was where Spanish and Portuguese Jews were buried. I imagined I'd read that Leonard Cohen was of Portuguese descent but I also had no reason to think I was right. I went in anyway, and was sure I’d found him when I discovered a tombstone with his last name on it.
I interrupted a photographer. He had a long telescopic lens set up on a tripod at face height. In another location I would assume he was attempting to get a shot of some wildlife. I didn’t even hear any birds around us. Using deductive reasoning, I deduced that he was a paranormal photographer assigned to film the behaviors of the deceased, possibly with a focus on mating rituals. I stumbled off the path and into deep snow to avoid him – more out of professional respect than superstition or fear.
Now, having been fooled by the Catholic dead already (https://without-a-gun.ghost.io/3-05-2024/) I elected not to make the same mistake here. My people are, at least, Catholic adjacent, and I could have made a convincing excuse for my trespasses. On these grounds I’m little more than itinerant goyish trash and I’m not about to defile anyone’s traditions if I can help it.
I found another Cohen stone tucked away, buried up to the middle in snow. Above the name an image of two hands made a triangle and I took this to be a sign of my success.
On returning home I looked up photos of Leonard’s grave and this was clearly not it. Also the hand sign indicates a specific priestly blessing. He was a man of many faiths but none so scripted.
I have to consider that Leonard may not want to be found, at least not by me. I doubt he needs to be concerned.