Late in the afternoon, I met a friend in the street. She wandered almost. I say almost because my question where you going, she replied I home. matter, some thing in his approach told me that his destination had no specific place - everyone knows, is often like that for artists. Before inviting him to join me for coffee, I already saw walking by my side in the direction of where we could talk and drink a hot beverage. Suddenly, I more strays. A curious calm covered the premises; silence surrounding the terrace; door creaked occasionally making me think of a song castafiore ill frequented, a friendly curiosity, a bit of modesty and also some hint of melancholy did this interview . That moment had a name and we did not yet found, because we did not try to name it. I felt destined for something. She, too, perhaps.
We continue to get acquainted while I sketch the biscotin deposited on the small plate. Throughout the exchange, I heard the blast of silence stretch. A silence that encouraged us to say again and again, carefully. I recognized then the deduction of these people who speak another language, including that their mother is dormant since they immigrated. Ironically, it is them that often, can express themselves best in their adopted language. With or without an accent, we continue to share a few truths. I understand the sentiment of your migration, do I advanced between sips of tea. Oh, and why? I asked her. Talk to you because you can not remember better the first hours and days of my arrival in Canada. * * *
I take a small break to talk about another friend who accompanied me greatly during the summer. I talk about solitude. At the friend I met earlier in the street, I launched a few words about solitude, that made me feel that Montreal, sometimes with pain this summer. At this time last year, I lived in a village outside of Montreal. There, almost everyone knew each other. All were nice, but it was sometimes difficult to avoid spillage of promiscuity that shot in bars and cafes. I loved, I loved the company of these creatures, but I lived with the awareness that this could not last forever for me. Almost overnight, I left this village.
In recent weeks, I thought back to last summer spent in the suburbs, specifically in this village. I revisit those months, years governed by the certainty that there would always (at least) a friend with whom to go for a drink. Then, in the house where I lived, the housemates were shown a heat and a brotherly welcome if they made me forget the loneliness that I would try again one day or another. That moment arrived, it was this past summer in Montreal. Yes, I had a loneliness that I did not choose always, being nevertheless aware that it was necessary to the strengthening of writing and of my being. I wanted to say no a few times, but life decided otherwise, and I respected that. So, I wrote, I read and sometimes I would sit at the piano and I was composing. * * *
With this friend cross earlier, we discussed the topic of loneliness, ours and that of others. Of seeing and talking with me temporarily forget it mine. Still seated at the cafe, I timidly advanced a pawn offering to break bread with me at my apartment located close to the cafe. His answer was charged so spontaneously that I am still puzzled a moment. "Yeah, you did not hesitate to answer!" 'I said, "I expected that you invite me" she said candidly. * * *
Proust was right to say that our misfortunes and our happiness is never as great as people think. Every time I sink into sadness or discouragement, the sentences of the great Marcel rescued me. My ideal is to always read Proust is to say, to have time and quiet necessary for another dip in the Search . I wish Proust meets Mozart, he writes about him.
Before saying goodbye to my friend, I played a little piano and sang a part of my composition. Then I just drove up to the door, mulling over the way our conversations in the afternoon. Showed up when the loneliness and the urge came to me writing.
