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This will be a sort of feverish series of fragments about the last 24 hours or so.

 

I am just sitting down before a poetry reading in a still-quiet bar on St-Denis just above St-Joseph (Bar La Marche à côté—very Francophone, I feel although I’m not equipped to judge) sipping a Cheval Blanc (I can talk about beers here: we don’t sell any of these) and waiting for people to arrive.  I was just nearly run over by one of those snow-clearing vehicles, but I managed to leap into a snow bank and here I am in one piece.

 

A lot has happened since the last time I sat to write anything down. Ian did show up, and we sat and chatted there in the “bar” for awhile. It was good to catch up to him. And then we went back into the zine fest and walked over towards the Cactus table, where my book indeed was, and said hi to Willow and Devon there. He, so discombobulated by sleeping on the wrong side of the bed and then the crowded/overheated room, then debated what to do next. There was a rally for Palestine, and that seemed to be the main idea.

 

He invited me to a late night rave, but I never went.

 

Lou, a writer Willow just introduced me to, is presently guiding a conversation about dreams and nightmares. Do we remember them? Do we see ourselves? Lucid dreams. Why we remember nightmares more than good dreams. Jean-Guy said that when he tried to make himself realize he was in a dream by a common technique, by trying to remember how he got to a place—because in dreams, there is no getting there, there is simply being there—his brain began to fabricate memories to compensate. I remember the lucid dreaming group I was in, years ago. Dreams became important to me after that. Here I am back in Montreal, and they’re coming up again.

 

(I should talk about Willow a little: Willow Loveday Little, a Montreal poet I met back in McGill. We were in the same creative writing class. There are not many creative writing classes at McGill—one a year, I think, and you have to write an application to get in. I think there were about ten of us. We all got a lot of us, and some of us, until recently, still got together online to read each other’s stories—Ian, although he was never part of the class, was in that too for reasons nobody was sure of although we were happy to have him. But Willow: we ran into each other randomly at station Sherbrooke once just before the end, when things were at their worst, and I we said we’d look at each other’s writing and give some feedback like the old days. I did not hold up my end of that because I shortly thereafter was without either a computer or a phone so there was no way for me to read anything to contact anyone, but I did get into contact with her shortly after moving back to Vancouver and we tried that again, and the group got going shortly after that, possibly from that kernel, and I’ve kept sending her my stuff and, since she’s editing professionally now, she’s my editor. There is very little I write that I do not send to Willow before I call it finished. She’s the one who suggested I send my chapbook, Chasm, to Cactus Press—where she’s gotten her own poetry book, which is worth a read, published—who are the ones who published it, and she is the one who suggested I come to expozine this year, which is where I am now, and who invited me to most of the other literary events I end up going to while I’m in town. I owe her a lot and will probably go on to owe her even more.

 

She is seated behind the tiny fold-out Cactus table in a little chair behind rows of books, of which I buy quite a few of. Devon Gallant, poet and publisher, is squished behind there with her. This is the general vibe of expozine. So much humanity and so much of its creativity squished behind fold-out furniture in a tiny little space.

 

Devon: editor-in-chief of Cactus Press, who I get the impression does a lot of good work around here. He also hosted the poetry event that happens tomorrow, but has been fading in and out over today like a ghost. All-around good guy, Devon is, from what I can tell, and a snapper dresser. Also a good poet. From Toronto. I feel slightly awkward around him because one of the first things I ever did to him was throw a bunch of legalese at him over a contract, because a bunch of people around me advised me to. The whole environment of this thing seems too friendly to behave that way, now that I’ve gotten to know it a bit better.)

 

Anyway. From expozine, I went back to the apartment, got some poutine—from Patati Patata, another gem literally just below me—rested a bit, and then went out again to begin the long journey to Matt & Isa on the South Shore.

 

I was excited about this because I wanted to ride the new REM train and this was an excuse—I could go to Panama and they could pick me up. I am a pubic transit nerd, you see. Here I  go: The 55 bus to Mont-Royal, then the trek along that avenue to the metro, then into the metro and along it to Bonaventure, and then off of it. This is the other time I’m sorta downtown, although I never surface: there I am looking around excitedly for the sign to the REM.

 

The transfer to the REM is sillier than the transfer from Granville to Vancouver City Centre, which everyone in Van thinks is very silly. And they’re right, but this is worse. It’s like a ten minute walk through a series of tunnels, up and down a series of stairs and escalators. But, finally, you get there. All snazzy and new. Roomy platform. Sleek. Modern. Those second guard doors the train lines up to, what are they called. Platform Screen Doors. I’ve never actually seen those in real life before.

 

I board the train. Also sleek and new. And the view—that was the best part. The metro is all underground, so this is a first for this city. You ride it out of Gare Centrale and then it heads towards the harbour. You get a great view of the Farine Five Roses sign for almost all of the trip. The only flour advertisement in the world that’s worth getting excited about—I think of all the people in Brossard lucky enough to get this extended view of it every time they commute to work. Bliss.

 

I arrive at Panama—it’s actually on rue Philippines, so the name is slightly misleading—and wait for Matt to appear to pick me up.

 

Matt and Isa. Old friends from back in the day. They live out here. I like to visit them every time I’m out here. They have a house in LaFleche, which needs a lot of repairs, which they’re doing, but it’s a lovely little house and I enjoy visiting. I brought them popcorn. We sit and hang out for a couple hours. Get poutine. Talk about the world and talk about work. She’s a teacher, he’s a welder at a company that builds filtration systems for ships.

 

It’s nice. It’s everyday. I enjoy myself. I relax. I was tired from how busy the whole day has been and the rum and coke they offer me and I take does not help, but I was glad to be there. Even sleepy. Even when they order in poutine for dinner, I am fine with it. I enjoy it. Two poutines in one day: well, I’m on vacation; well, I’m in Quebec. The “best poutine on the South Shore: and I can believe it, it’s about as good as what I had for lunch. The curds squeak as they should. I am satisfied.

 

Isa drops me back off at Panama. I go in, go to tap my Opus and continue my way to the platform. My Opus is rejected. I try again. Rejected. Again. Rejected. I remember I’m on the South Shore—my pass must not work. I go to the machine, try to figure out what I need to get. It is not obvious. I pick a single bus fare, on a guess. It was wrong. I am starting to panic. I phone Matt, to ask him what to do. As I’m waiting for him to pick up, a dad and two kids are exiting. I act on panic, shove the phone in my pocket and push through to the inside as they’re exiting.

 

As I slip through, the dad YELLS at me in French. Yells after me as I keep going. I stop, unsure what to do—I did technically do something I wasn’t supposed to do—and turn. I am mostly speechless. I stammer something in English. He switches to English when I do. He is very angry: “Hey, hey! Don’t you see there are kids here! You have to pay!” Also apparently when I squeezed through, I hit one of the kids with my bag too. I didn’t notice that, and I feel bad about that. I apologize for that immediately. I say that I’m not from there and I’m lost and confused. Roughly, that. He is still obviously livid, but he says “Thank You” for the apology, and leaves.

 

I walk up to the platform, upset. I am unhappy about all that, and I wish I had averted it. It was unnecessary, and entirely my fault. I blamed my impatience; or my panic. One or the other. And, now, I’m afraid of being found out and fined, or thrown out. I know this is unlikely, but I cannot help but think it.

 

I realize my phone is still on in my pocket, and has been the whole time. The call went through: Matt has been listening. I put the phone to my ear, I say “Hello?” Like I am surprised anyone is there—and I am, it’s been nearly two minutes. It’s a wonder he hasn’t hung up. I tell him what happened. He tells me what needed to have done: Opus doesn’t work, although nothing tells you that—I needed to buy, I think he said, an “occassionnelle” pass. He agrees the system is confusing and not user friendly, and he’s sorry what happened happened. The call ends. I board the train.

 

My next stop was in Parc-Ex. My friend Oliver, another one from the old days, is having a pizza party for his 40th—I learned about it yesterday. We guests are meant to bring ingredients, he has the dough, and he will cook them all on site as we mingle.

 

I did not bring anything: I just came all the way from the South Shore. I just brought myself. I bring myself along Oglivy in the Montreal night, glad to be here, as I pass the multicultural mix of storefronts, no one of them the same. I am still edgy from earlier, and I am nervous every time I cross the street, in case I am run over or anger someone. But nothing happens—I make it to Oliver’s. I climb the winding steps, slippery with the first hint of what will tomorrow be the winter’s first snow. I hear the activity behind the door—I open it, and there everyone is.

 

Too much to write down, everything that happened there. It was a good night. I reconnected with people who were on the periphery of my life for years, before so many additional years happened before I could stop them. People who didn’t even immediately remember me. It was a lot. Oliver himself was downstairs--after being told he was there, I went back down and down to the lower half of the building, went in. He was minding the pizza.

 

Although I don’t smoke, it feels like half the night was spent out the back door with the smokers. It’s true what they say, the conversations are good out there.

 

At the end of the night, followed some other people to Acadie metro. They were going towards Snowdon. I went the other way, got off at de Castelnau, caught the 55 back to the apartment. It was late. I read one chapter of a book in bed, which I shouldn’t be doing because I need to sleep, and the last few hours shimmer around me like they’re still there in the room.

 

Hm. … No, let’s try the end of that a second time:

 

The last time I was here, Oliver was in the lower half, so I was confused when the address he had given me was up the stairs. I look at the windows of the first floor, see the red mood-lights, find it still looks like his. That’s where I had gone in last time, so I’m confused for a few seconds. But I follow directions, and up I go. There is a sign clearly marking it is the right place. I open the door, and there everyone is. It’s like it’s 2015 again. I literally can’t put how that feels into words. I pass the door, see someone I haven’t seen since about then sitting down, and I wave. His eyes tell me he does not know who I am, so I remind him. It’s coming back—that’s okay, I proceed inwards to give him time. I see Oliver’s mom, wave to her. It takes her a moment to recognize me too, then she does.

 

(I removed one paragraph here--I'd like to put it back, but not as it is. It veered too far into sentiment.)

 

(All of this will be finished and posted out of order, because good God I have written too much to finish it off properly. The memory of it is also slipping into what will end up being partial invention, because that’s the funny thing about writing life as it happens: you can’t possibly keep up. It’s already days later. I’m not even at the poetry event anymore, it’s the next day.)

 

Oliver is in the downstairs segment of the building, she tells me—they have both halves of the plex now….If they did not before, I must confess I’m not sure. So I go back out, down, and find him in the kitchen minding the pizzas. He is surprised I got in, because he’d thought he’d locked the front door—but he’s not upset. Most people are going up and down the back stairs, where the smokers are (and where, enough though I’m not a smoker, I will end up spending about half the night).

 

(Oliver Lewis: his sister, Anae, was one of my best friends in Montreal when I lived her, and I do not exaggerate when I say that I owe her my life. In those days, he lived in a warehouse loft in a building at the intersection of Masson and d’Iberville, the industrial edge of Old Rosemont that rubs against the industrial edge of the Plateau’s eastern extreme. I was always closer friends with Anae, but I always liked Oliver. I liked going over to his space: a cabinet of curiosities, a twilight zone of coloured lights and surreal media. I honestly don’t know how to adequately describe it. I have a short story based on it, which he’s read a draft of and liked. Unique soul. Creative soul. Wonderful soul. The sort of soul that keeps the world turning although it doesn’t know it.)

 

We both head back upstairs, with the pizza he has taken out of the oven. Up there, I strike a good conversation with his dad, Gerry, who is also a writer, and I spend most of the evening with him and the guy who had trouble remembering me at first—Scott. It had come back to him by the time he saw me again, out on the balcony. I had been a peripheral character in his life for a period of years, he says, and he’s sorry he forgot me. We get along like he had before. He seems to be doing well.

 

He offered me scotch, Aberlour, that he wanted to get rid of because it’s too strong, and I have some A tiny teacup’s worth, but a little. I hope it’ll help my cough a little, force it’s way through the knot. It didn’t help, and it was indeed strong. He tells me he got it as a gift and had brought it to the party to try to make it disappear there. Gerry meanwhile comes down and makes an actual cup of tea.

 

I would like to write more about the party, but its not easy to capture the texture of it in retrospect. I remember fragments. I remember connections made, or remade, and fragments of scenes. I could reconstruct it if I felt like it, but it would be a dead thing. It would be literature.

 

I remember the set up of the rooms and the way the voices carried had the texture of Shawn, Sean and Anae’s place in the old days. Some things are in the blood.

 

It’s about 12:30 when I leave in a part of a clump headed for the metro. Scott is one of those with me, plus a couple of others. Gerry and I, who have spent a long time talking about Montreal vs. The West Coast (he’s from Victoria), writing work, and life, have agreed to have coffee while I’m there. He is still at the party, left behind us. It was good to get to know him a little as something more than a friend’s parent: he seems like an interesting guy.

 

Those of us who have left go west along  We went west, towards Station l’Acadie. We followed Parc-Ex to its end where it smacks into TMR and the chain-link fence separating the two, then down to the station. They went one way and I went the other: they’re going to St-Henri. It’s suggested I would’ve been better off taking the 80 bus rather than walking with them, but I don’t mind—when else am I going to be able to walk along Jean-Talon O in these wee hours, looking through the windows of these crowded bars in this neighbourhood I’ve never had reason to be so long after dark?

 

I get off at de Castelnau, where I catch the 55 and go back to the apartment via the dark St-Urbain. Get off at Rachel, walk the last two blocks and manage to get the key in the lock.

 

It was late.

 

I read one chapter of a book in bed—which I shouldn’t be doing because I need to sleep—and the last few hours shimmer around me like they’re still there in the room.