Clark and Bernard - I shared this place with a girl I met at Open Da Night (local hipster cafe). Actually it was her place. I have few distinct memories of this place as I spent a good deal of the time at my girlfriend Catherine's place. I was burgled for the third time. It had a big bathtub, the kind with feet. It was dark and the couch smelled like cat pee.
I headed out to my studio. It was after dark, but it was winter so it could've been 5 just as easily as it could've been 9. I wanted to bring a stack of cardboard or a pile of wood or something to work with. I decided the best way to carry it would be to just hug it to my chest and walk quickly. It wasn't too heavy but it was too big for a bag and had too many loose pieces to be carried on my shoulder or under an arm. I went down the first three steps outside my door that stopped at a landing that allowed the neighbours steps to merge with ours, forming a narrower staircase that went down to the sidewalk. Those unfamiliar with Montreal should take note that most apartments have exterior staircases that generally go from the side walk up to the second floor. Sometimes they spiral or curve but just as often they are straight. These were straight. It saves room inside, providing more living space but are not ideal in the winter months where the constant yo-yoing temperatures, melting and freezing, make for a one way icy death ramp. I guess that could be avoided if you shoveled the snow and slush off of them regularly, but that was never the case anywhere I lived.
I stepped off the landing and onto the first step toward the sidewalk. I was immediately flat on my back. I remember thinking back to another ride down the stairs I had taken a few years back (Park and Bernard) that resulted in a pulled abdominal muscle that drug out into numerous months of mild pain to severe discomfort. My mistake in that case had been that I reached out, grabbed hold of, and held on to the hand rail. My feat flew towards the street while my hand remained anchored on the railing. My abs tried to follow my feet, stretching to the point of snapping. This time grabbing onto something wasn't an option so I hugged my arm load tightly and luged down the stairs. In a blink I was sitting on the sidewalk coming to grips with my little trip. I slowly got back to my feet expecting shooting pain in my back, tailbone or some deeply buried muscle that until now had never registered the slightest electrical impulse. To my surprise and relief, I felt nothing. I may have had snow up a pant leg but no bumps, bruises or contusions. It reminded me of that feeling you get when you wake up from a night out of championship level drinking to make your first trip to the toilet, bracing yourself for the throbbing headache, for the dizzy spins, for the stomach churning, and realise you have none of those symptoms. You feel reborn, having been given a second chance at a healthy and happy life. Live each day to the fullest. Ring the last drop drop from life. Spread your wings and embrace life's gifts. Go back to bed.
St.Urbain and Bernard - I moved one block west and from the south side of Bernard to the north side. Catherine and I had decided to live together. It wasn't the nicest place and this was the first time I felt the changes blowing threw Mile End. Apartments were taken the second a" for rent" sign went up. Rent had jumped considerably from the year before, despite laws to prevent exactly that. I went to see a place on Esplanade that was near the corner of Van Horne (a location barely considered Mile End a year before) and there were about 25 other people visiting it at the same time. We filed up the stairs and once inside I took a quick look around. The kitchen couldn't hold a table, the bathroom door hit against the tub, allowing to open only halfway, and the one bedroom was slightly larger than a bed. By the time my tour ended and I headed towards the door, a girl was handing a her references to the landlord, the first time I had ever seen that, and the landlord had agreed to let her have the place. The end of an era.
A few days after moving in I was severely injured foolishly carrying a hammond organ up the stairs. My lower abdominal, groin, hip, and inner thigh muscles were badly strained. I continued to work which involved a great deal of lifting. I thought I could exercise my way through so I continued roller blading, cycling and running. But things kept getting worse and by the time winter rolled around walking along the icy sidewalks was slow and excruciatingly painful. I would get home from work and sit in front of the TV and drink beer. Sitting wasn't much relief but the alcohol did relax the muscles which had seemingly balled up into a fist sized knot between my legs.
On one particularly icy evening I headed home from work around six thirty. I was already tired out from making my way to the bus stop and having to stand and be tossed around as the awful Montreal city bus jerked and swayed it's way up St.Laurent in rush hour traffic. On the last leg of my trip, the two block walk from the stop to my place, I could barely move my legs enough to take a step. I had no strength left in my thighs and stomach and could barely propel myself forward. Add to this the strength needed to stay upright and keep my footing on the sheer, icy surface and it was grueling. About a block left and I had to piss. Even at the best of times I'm not a good Holder-Inner. There's always the choice to be made between walking fast, or even running, but risking a quicker release of fluids, or keeping a slower steadier pace and focusing on keeping the flood gates closed. In this case speeding up was not an option. Not to get too graphic, but the muscles normally used to hold it in had been severely compromised by my injury.
I somehow managed to get myself safely to the bottom of my, once again, ice covered stairs. I could hardly lift my foot high enough to put it onto the first step and as I attempted to do so I felt all bladder control cease. I put my foot back down and just stared up at my door. Catherine wasn't home. I couldn't get any help. I could either try to keep from pissing, which wouldn't be a permanent solution, or walk up the steps. But I couldn't do both. It was dark. It was cold. I was exhausted from being in pain for months, going to one useless, clueless, seemingly unconcerned doctor after another, living the life of a man in his seventies and getting very little sympathy for it. I couldn't stand it anymore. My muscles were twitching and stabbing me and I started to cry. I just didn't care anymore and I let go. My pants were soaked down both legs and turned freezing cold from the winter night as it took about five minutes to climb the stairs and let myself in. I took a hot shower, changed and took my place in front of the TV with a cold beer. When Catherine came home I wanted to tell her. I thought it might seem too pathetic but a bigger part of me wanted, not only sympathy, but a realization and acknowledgement that, granted I wasn't dying of terminal cancer, but that I was going through a rough patch. I told her what had happened and that it had upset me so much that I had cried for the first time in years. She laughed.Only for a couple of seconds, until she realized that it was not meant as an amusing anecdote. She then changed her tone and consoled me briefly, albeit superficially, and that was that.
I should have realized then it was over. We broke up four months later.
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Catherine and I broke up maybe a month before the lease was up and I decided not to get tied down with another lease. I wanted to get out of Montreal but I hadn't decided where to go yet. But I had to stay somewhere.
DeLorimier and Sherbrook- First, I spent a couple of months in my brother Mike's laundry room. I got a single futon from the store I was working at and it fit snugly between the washing machine and the wall. I had room to put my dresser at the foot of the bed and that was it. I somehow managed to keep my spirits up despite being 29 and living in a laundry room.
Marianne and Papineau- Next, I moved in with a coworker, his sister, and his friend (or two friends?). It was a nice place near a rejuvenated Mount Royal and a decent tavern for watching hockey. A typical Plateau apartment with the high ceilings, moulding, hardwood and all that. Everyone was five years or more younger than me and that was a bit irritating. I didn't spend too much time at home though. I had decided to move to Japan and had quit my job. Free time galore.
During this period I spent most of my time at my studio. It was on Laurier near St.Urbain. It was small but I never really felt like it was cramped. The windows faced the street so I could waste time watching people walking by if I was so inclined. It was a bit hot in summer but in winter, because of a "heat included" rent policy, it was toasty warm. I remember cranking the heat, listening to the Habs losing on the radio and painting on many a cold February night. It's hard to believe how good I had it. I think it was 150$ a month, it was bright, and within walking distance of my home. As I begin to look for a studio in cramped little, oppressive rental lawed Nagasaki, I tear up thinking about that little room I spent a couple of years working in.
I moved my single Futon in and slept there a couple of times a week. Big windows with no curtain was the only drawback. After a night of drinking I ended up back at my studio. I had a recording session the next day. We were finishing up the vocals on the Motorboats cd. We were supposed to record a song that had yet to be named and had no lyrics. I woke up to a grey morning. One of those cold, wet, heavy days. The snow is sticky and clumps up under your boots as you walk. The heat was cranked up but you could feel it fighting to keep the cold at bay and you could tell that it was just barely winning. I had good idea for a melody. I remembered about how my old roommate used to talk about building a house on sand versus building a house on rock. By which he meant basing your life on God or on some other false belief. I thought about how I've tried to find that person I could rest on, that I could relax with, not worrying which habit or mistake, or personality deficit was going to come back to be used against me. But overtime I realized that I was building on sand. Now, I didn't find God but I did write some o.k. lyrics. And I realized that I had to be the rock. I had to be solid. I had to build my own foundation.
