A cold Saturday afternoon

I’m at Café Utopik, on Ste-Catherine St. in front of Berri Square. I’ve known of this place for a long time and have always been curious about it, but never came until today. My plan, after meeting the man who sold me the September issue of Spirale Magazine, was to go to Kilo as a means to soak in my life-before, but, upon exiting Renaud-Bray, I turned westward, away. Something of an imaged riot-ness of the place turned me off: late-morning breakfasts after nights before, served with that attitude that was once mine and that I can’t seem to find patience for now, in my old age. (And this has me wonder if this is what getting older is all about: a loss of patience for those young, combined with a stretched, patient perception of time.)

I’m having trouble with plot. I’m having trouble with language. I cannot write of Montreal in a uni-linguistic way because I have never experienced this city as such, and I could not, because everything I experience diverges any which way through any of both languages that inhabit me, and this city promotes this disparity within me even more. To write this, by which I mean to write in such a way, is quite singular. I have often described myself as a perfect Montreal creation: a location where distinct solitudes meet, leaving me dual in most ways I can imagine. This, I do not know how to write through. And, I am convinced that, ultimately, people do not appreciate pluralities; they are just too difficult.