Flowers For Hitler.

This is my 40th entry. 40 days. 40 entries. The same amount of time Noah spent on the Ark. I always like Noah as a kid. Though I’d often get in trouble for drawing dinosaurs boarding the ark, two by two by two. Cursed revisionist/creationist history and my prudish Seventh Day Adventist education. Though that it is not what I care to write about today. Nup.

I’m writing on borrowed time here. I am supposed to be having dinner with my aunt on the other side of town precisely 10 minutes ago. Sorry Anne. This is important.

I received a letter in the mail today from the Downing Centre on Liverpool St. A rather ominous looking envelope, I knew would contain the contents of a now entirely defunct love affair. Did you know an AVO is actually an ADVO? I didn’t.

In fact, I didn’t know a lot about anything legal or policed in nature before starting this blog. A lot can happen in 40 days.

And as I sat on the toilet just now, opening this rather ominous looking envelope I began to think over the past 40 days of my trajectory and had a wee little cry to match my wee little wee.

It was brief and devoid of drama.

As I said, just a little one.

And so now as I duck out the door for a yummy dinner and a sleep over I am reminded of a great number of things.

One of which is many people in my life give a shit about me.

A few of you have written to me personally this week to let me know what you think of this blog thus far, which I want you to know I really, really appreciate.

And it’s a strange sort of day really.

And probably a strange sort of blog.

Meeting on an aeroplane, falling in love and then arriving here all in the space of a year makes for a peculiar set of ingredients… and now just feel flailing thoughts.

I don’t smell him in my apartment anymore. Not on pillows. Not anywhere. Nor do I ever imagine it will be him when the phones rings. Traditionally these factors would be met with sort of sadness. But not today. Not anymore. I’ve had my cry.

Flowers for Hitler?

Waiting for Marianne.

An excerpt from ‘Flowers for Hitler.’

I have lost a telephone
with your smell in it
I am living beside the radio
all the stations at once
but I pick out a Polish lullaby
I pick it out of the static
it fades I wait I keep the beat
it comes back almost alseep

Did you take the telephone
knowing I’d sniff it immoderately
maybe heat up the plastic
to get all the crumbs of your breath

and if you won’t come back
how will you phone to say
you won’t come back
so that I could at least argue.

– Leonard Cohen.

(Image by Morris Coffey.)


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