off to the eccentric east

to preserve my self, i've been mechanical of late. i tucked julia and her guitar into a cab this morning, and i tucked my clean sheets into the mattress, as I concluded yet another cycle in what is becoming a delightfully, but at times difficult, transient life. so tomorrow, i'll head north with the mother and the sister, before heading east to explore the Atlantic and Fundy coasts of Nova Scotia. i suppose there's some symbolism to be explored in the fact that i'm taking such an out-of-the-way road home, via a small island hanging off the mainland shelf. either i'm a masochist, or i'm terribly fond of montreal. the latter i know is true, and the leaving will be a challenge. updates from the road, perhaps.

flowers for the jesus

yesterday a ukranian woman sat on the stairs leading up to 4253 Esplanade. it was 4:56, and she was waiting for 4:00, for her Mark to come, but "he has woman and job and throat problem. he take the pills." and so she sat there, half-lit in that delicate evening-is-coming light, yelling at the cats, reminding me that suzie and murka can only be told apart by their tails. "show me tail. no, this is suzie."

i leaned over the balcony, a floor above her, when i'd finally pulled away from the inevitable recap of Stalin's misbehavior. i could still see her liver spotted feet jetting out onto the lower stoop. this image sent me to sleep.

so today, j, s, and i took red geraniums to her door. she peeked through, ashamed of her stained pajamas, her stomach flu, her inability to "shit in the toilet seat" (her words, not mine). "maybe it is the cottage cheese and sour cream i eat last night. i not supposed to eat. but i like." but the flowers appealed to her. "hello. hello." she says, in a low guttural voice (I realize only later that she is funny, that these antics can't just be chalked up to the absurdity of her old age and immigrant english), welcoming both of them into her home, and wishing to invite us, too, but feeling it an inappropriate time. we're to come back for ice cream one of these days; she made us promise.

although she felt exposed, us at her doorstep, and not at her best, she pulled us in farther and farther, to show us the paintings of jesus. a simple throwaway that you'd find at a thrift store, that she's bestowed with great meaning--surrounded by plastic funerary flowers and candles. she prays for her cats, for her Mark, for stephanie to find a tall german man. she knows it's not worth much, and she's sold other paintings in the past (since she only has 81 cents in the bank), but selling it, she said, would make her a Judas Iscariot. she points out a poster she's framed with a pack of kittens posed photogenically on a tree branch. through her accent, i think i hear her call them her brothers, and she picks out her favorites (the grey being one of the most mentioned), but i may be wrong.

dogs like her more than soldiers.
her dog did not trust any man in uniform.
and once a man in uniform placed a gun in her dog's mouth, and pulled the trigger.

and the modern women have it so easy. "just push a button. but look at me, my knees. they are scratched."

and so we've left flowers not for the jesus, but for one of his followers. and one who has been neglected.

play another slow one, sammy

three of them to choose from. "l'exotique," "the sexy one," and "the nice guy." i was closest to the prior, and slightly offended at the MC's title for him, so it was to the exotic, whose name i forget, that i extended my hand. we swayed under the disco ball that bathed us in such delicious light that all spectators surely watched with trance-like attention. but i wouldn't know. because this was our dance, and i could no longer even hear the quebecois singing along to the cheezy number that was playing. he held me tight. i wiped away my fake tears. he howled in mourning. i'd finally found my quebecois to marry (for citizenship), too late. it was the last dance . . . and i'd be leaving in two weeks.

so goes the story, the offering of three, and the public display of embarrassment for the american intern. this was my last fling with k*no--the final monthly screening i would attend, and my last attempt at seducing a quebecois from that large pool of ready and willing. genevieve gave me a bouquet of flowers; nathalie handed me a drink voucher; hugo spoke to me in his broken english one more time, still presuming it was better than my highly-accented french.

that slow number playing was a bright memory, but yesterday, with France's election results [where did the tone of this blog just go?], sammy started playing a little ditty in a very minor chord. Crazy Sarko won, and the riots have already begun in the banlieue.

end scene.