Come to our party on Thursday–
Sometimes when you deliberately try not to think about something, that thought can take on a tangible form. A physical manifestation of the repressed thought will try to push its way into this world.
Nasty notes bloom on winter windshields. A cop kneels down to sift through a nest of needles.
So what else is Montréal trying hard not to think about?
The first thing Robin ever gave me was a hand-drawn invitation to a Groundhog Day party. I still have it. I keep it with a bunch of other such items in a drawer back at the house in Gaspereau Forks.
There are photographs and artwork. Little notes. A few articles of clothing. A scarf that retains the trace of her scent, even after almost four years.
It’s usually the sign of a pretty dark night in the country if I find myself sliding open that drawer.
Last week when I moved to Montreal I left the contents of the drawer behind. Now I wish I had brought that invitation with me, I wish I could hold it in my hand.
I think back to the night she doodled it up. We were sitting at the bar at the Khyber Club.
I remember her phone number (431-LOOP), the illustration of little cartoon characters, and her charming handwriting with its mixture of capital letters and lowercase e’s.
This afternoon I loaded up my car with a bunch of musical instruments plus a few clothes and a cat. I left my house and drove through a snowstorm into sunny skies, and I kept on driving, all the way to Friendship Cove, Griffintown, Montréal, Québec.
I drove all day and into the night and now I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep. My body still feels like it’s moving. Every time I start to doze off, I jolt awake and expect to find myself veering into a lane of oncoming traffic.
Here is a walk through the first night at my new home, courtesy of late-night low-light super-shaky sleepy-cam.
900 kilometres. That is far.