WhatsMe's Open Salon Blog

Looking out at the Farine Five Roses

Sat, 26 May 2012 22:05:05 -0400

The sign is still there, it almost went down a few years ago, but it a public outcry protected the landmark bilingual sign, a symbol of the dual character of this city. Yes, and here I am, trying to revisit my youth, but can't even get out of this bed, lucky for me the safety deposit box in my original room didn't work, and they couldn't fix it, so they reassigned me to this room with a view, a view that brings so many happy memories. I am writhing in pain, as usual the double dose of painkiller failed to accomplish its purpose, so I can only walk in my mind thestreets where Iused to run. I wish I could do so many things, it isn't fun to travel when all you get is a view from the room, and knowing that all the fun is out there to be had, but you can't have it... I thought this would be a good idea, I've been missing travel so much I couldn't take it anymore, not after another night without power at my place, waiting for the electric company to fix the problem, I just took off and started driving and ended up here, looking out The St Lawrence Seaway. I should have splurged on that scotch, although what I really wanted was a sip of Centenario Anejo.

The Farine Five Roses keeps flashing its red lights, defying the language laws that require all French signs to be larger than English signs... its message now as cryptic as the motto on Quebec's license plates... Je me souviens. Just like Five Roses doesn't exist anymore, nobody really knows what are we supposed to remember...although I know what I remember. I remember walking. WALKING without pain, walking up and down the streets, in the heat and in the sleet and freezing rain, with icy sidewalks that forced me to walk in the middle of the road, and barefoot on scorching asphalt because the cheap sandals I wore couldn't take the heat. Walking down to Grffintown from trendy Mile End where the latest cars and drivers paraded to the light of hundreds of flashes from papparazzi cameras. It was Grand Prix week and Montreal was flying high, during the day and part of the evening you could hear the roar of engines from the Jacques Villeneuve circuit. And from the dormer window of my tiny one room down in the old worker's quarters I could see the Farine Five Roses sign flashing its red lights good night. The air was full of hope and possibilities, and I was ready to take it all in, Now on the twenty something floor of a high-star hotel, I look down at the roofs of those workers quarters, still illuminated by the flashing Farine Five Roses sign.

Underneath the sign, cranes are on the site of the old stables - it used to be my favorite shortcut to get to the bikepath. Another landmark succumbs to development. How much longer for the dainty roofs of those three houses where I used to rent a room with a view? How much longer for me, for this pain? I don't like where I am right now. I wish I could be back down there, without money but with all my youth, my health and my hope. Not that I have much money now, its the student protests against tuition hikes that sparked certain discounts in Montreal downtown hotels, allowing me this splurge into memory lane.

In a way I had a secret desire to see those protesters, to be a small witness to it. But even that was denied, no angry crowds in sight, not even happy crowds in sight. Downtown Montreal looks eerily quiet on this Saturday evening, perhaps taking a rest from all those daily efforts? Or maybe it's just me not looking in the right places, after all, I am not down there on the street, and there is only so much you can see from a high-rise window. A beautiful view and a memory, that's all. And pain, which colors it all bittersweet.

Night in pain

Thu, 17 May 2012 00:05:13 -0400

Another night

With pain in sight

No more relief

I'm supposed to sleep

But the best alarm

Keeps ringing inside

And the silly verse

Springs from a dead brain

All day I kill it with TV

No end in sight

No relief or demise

Just pain and numbness

The numbness of not thinking

Through TV and soaps and the silliest of shows

Don't think, don't think, don't think don't think don't

To pain or not to pain... if only we could choose

Tue, 15 May 2012 00:05:30 -0400

pain pain pain

no choice no exit

pain pain pain

constant rain on the brain

no umbrella can shield

no towel can dry

the pain pain that rots inside

drills holes in my soul

bare to the bone and beyond pain

are those who know better

who always know better

yet somehow I'm not better

not better

But why even bother?

There's pain, endless pain.

Tears fall on deaf ears

Fri, 11 May 2012 23:05:55 -0400

The truth in life is harsh. The truth is nobody has patience for the suffering. Nobody wants to watch another cry, so you just pretend we don't exist, or you tune into another channel, which amounts to the same. I know, I've been there. Now I am here in the valley of tears where even God

s existance is questionable. But I need to believe, for if I don't believe inGod, what's left is too bleak and dreary and I might as well just give up. Throw the towel. Suicide. Quit the shack. Or perhaps goand shag, screw it all?

So I need to believe, despite the pain, despite the tears, the insurmountableness of the mountain in front of me. Despite of, or even because of. I believe. It is a stupid reason to believe, and that's what you need to have faith in a desperate situation. Be stupid or crazy or probably both. So help me God. For I can't help myself and no one else cares.

After the Moon - Darkness

Wed, 9 May 2012 23:05:49 -0400

Here's to a dreamland America - not the one from my teenage dreams, but the one reflected here, in Open Salon, by moonlight. After the full moon comes darkness. It doesn't creep in, it hits you suddenly, like a 4x4 in an empty corridor, like a Jarmush movie so depressing and yet so compelling you have to keep watching until the end. Of the Night on Earth. Here, in this corner of the world there is pain. So much pain it's lead to despair. A despair that doesn't drown in a sipping tequila, no matter how good the stuff is (and trust me, it IS good). A despair shared by the person at the other end of the line, who worries about trivial things and seems to be drowning in a half-empty glass. My own problems, in comparison, seem insurmountable. As insurmountable as the very real and disgusting and bloody wounds that don't want to heal. As disgusting as the pharmacy who refuses to deliver my bandages. As disgusting as the tracking system at the post office that has the special package stuck in Heathrow. As disgusting as the ant invasion, the water marks from the leak in the chimney, the dirty sink and the mess in the laundry room. As disgusting as life itself when you strip off the dreaminess of the wonder years and are left with the remains of a cold cup of bad coffee. As disgusting as the prospect of a life of one day at a time, each with its measure of bloody, smelly bandages, of nasty people to deal with or avoid dealing with, of lack of dignity, and prospects of more of the same or worse to come. The prospects, my dear, are elementally flawed.

What remains is hope, but hope that grates at you until there's so little left you crumble (as my friend and writer Catherine Austen put it). I've crumbled for lack of hope. Mark the day, the day after the perigree moon is the day of darkness all around. The day without hope. But why should you care out there, at the other line, worried as you are about your own bleakness and the darkness that surrounds you?