This past week, Leonard Cohen passed away.
I knew, of course, that this was eventually going to happen and I also knew, deep inside, that this was possibly imminent. Leonard himself, reflecting on the recent death of his longtime muse and love, Marianne Ihlen, seemed aware that he soon would be joining her. As much as I was intellectually prepared for this event, emotionally it was still a numbing moment.
The world responded quickly, as it invariable does these days, and much was written about the poet and singer's legacy. Many tributes and much reminiscing occurred and his name has now been added to the seemingly endless list of musical icons who have passed away in this sad year.
If you know me well, then you know how important Leonard Cohen was to me. My love for the man's writing and music grew out of the crucible of teenage hormonal angst we almost all found ourselves dealing with at that age. For me, this occurred back in the late sixties.
I was not depressed or suicidal or filled with undue anxiety at the time but I did find myself torn in many directions and wanting desperately to be a man of the world when, in fact, I wasn't even a man of the subdivision. Finding my way with the girls was a constant state of struggle and rejection (or at least what felt like rejection) was the constant hidden jungle trap. On top of everything else, as much as I wasn't dealing with suicidal depression, someone else in my family was.
So it was during this part of my life that I discovered Leonard Cohen.
I was as prone to listening to the music of the day as anyone else was and there was a steady stream of Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and The Doors engaging me on a daily basis. I liked it all, for sure, but then I heard Cohen's "Suzanne" for the first time.
I had never heard anything like it before. The voice, the lyrics...they were like nothing else playing on the radio those days and I was drawn to them like no other.
Part of the attraction was Cohen's imperfect voice. There were no histrionics employed and the monotone he effected made it seem as though he was just one of us, one of the strugglers in the world who was trying to figure things out the same way we all were. As much as anything, though, it was the lyrics which stood out. He talked about mysticism and sexuality and Jesus, for Christ's sake, all in the same song! The intimate nature of the music made it easy to feel as though it was only directed at me, and not the surrounding, acne-riddled masses.
As soon as I was able, I bought the album "Songs of Leonard Cohen", playing it over and over. My parents were somewhat aghast that I would so readily immerse myself in what they saw as nothing more than monotonous melancholia. I, myself, was unable to adequately explain the attraction---apart from the fact that all teenagers seem to be drawn to what their parents aren't.
My love of Cohen wasn't easily shared. It probably didn't help that "Suzanne", partly because of its Canadian roots, soon became part of the high school English curriculum. We studied it, for goodness' sake. Picked it apart. This was not an exercise most of my peers particularly enjoyed and the fact that I actually doted on Cohen never scored me any points on the popularity scale.
On the wall in my bedroom, the posterised Cohen soon appeared. On another part of the wall, mounted like a shield, hung the cracked and broken top of a plastic birdbath. This birdbath and I had had a run-in in a neighbour's backyard and its jagged edge had made my leg bleed profusely. With my neighbour's blessing, I retrieved it, detached the top, and positioned it in a place of honour above my bed. Not far from this, I had also mounted a chunk of 2x8. Attached to this piece of wood was were samples of the same wires and staples that morticians use to ensure their clients' mouths stay firmly closed after death. An undertaker had once come to my public school as part of a "careers" presentation and had demonstrated their use. Afterward, I rather boldly asked him if he had any further use for this piece of wood. He did not and it came home with me. This then was the room to which I retreated to listen to Cohen in the dark, for hours. Very little wonder that my parents feared for me.
The feeling that I had at the time, though, was that listening to Leonard Cohen was somehow or other saving me. It was almost as if the angst and confusion were being shared and, in the sharing, dissipated. It was not actually therapy but sort of was.
I bought all of Cohen's early albums and soon along came "Songs of Love and Hate". I still consider this to be Cohen's masterpiece. I so clearly remember lying there in the dark, with headphones on, listening to "Dress Rehearsal Rag", an epic-length song from that album. Essentially it is a
contemplation of regret and loss in which suicidal images are very prevalent. It was easy to identify with the protagonist and feel, similarly to a good movie, that you were right there living his life with him. Then, just when you think it's possible he might actually end it all, suddenly "the cameras pan, the stand in stunt man, dress rehearsal rag, it's just the dress rehearsal rag." To me, this seemed like some form of redemption, that you could be depressed and contemplating ending it all (possibly even practising) but that, in the end, it perhaps was just as acceptable to carry on.
As an adolescent, then, I let Cohen share the dark with me. As an older man, I allowed Leonard Cohen to age right in front (and only somewhat ahead) of me--sharing his joy, bewilderment, anger, longing and passion right up to the end. The fact that he could still get the women as he aged also couldn't help but endear him to me
I knew that he would be gone some day and wondered how this would affect me. Of course, I have been able to share him with many over the past week or so, thanks to the world we live in these days. In an age of instant gratification and lightning-swift communication, though, I was bemused to discover that Leonard Cohen had actually passed a full three days before the world found out about it. This, and that fact that he was buried in a simple pine box next to his parents, helped to add a little perspective to the self-deprecatory man he always was.
A very complex and simple man.
Every once in awhile, the subject of my wife, Doralyn's, next husband comes up. That's not because we're on the outs or anything, it's just what seems a realistic topic for discussion as I am significantly that much older than she is.
This is the second marriage for both of us and one of her favourite sayings is I married the first time for kids, the second time for love, and the third time it'll be for money!
We kind of smile and chuckle whenever this comes up, obviously not knowing whether life will work itself out this way or not but, frankly, I'd be quite happy for her if, after I'm gone, she found some rich guy who was able to provide her with some of the things I'm unable to right at the moment. And when I say some of the things, I mean pretty well everything.
Neither one of us came out of our respective previous marriages particularly well off financially, so we found ourselves basically as the the stereotypical struggling newlyweds, the only difference being that we were in our thirties and fifties at the time. We're in our forties and sixties right now and nothing much has changed, believe me.
Now, I'm not sure who Doralyn envisions as her next husband but I kind of picture The Most Interesting Man In The World from all the Dos Equis commercials. He'll be able to fly her wherever they want to go and take her on all these marvelous adventures, dressing her up glamourously and treating her royally. With the husband she has now, well, we occasionally make it to Toronto...
This new husband, whoever it turns out to be, will be a lucky man. I know this because I'm a lucky man and everyone knows I'm a lucky man. I'll wager that this actually confounds the odd person and I know it certainly is a little beyond my comprehension as to how I became this lucky. I should really buy lottery tickets. I really wish I could tell you just how lucky I am but, really, there's not the time. Just take my word for it!
If there's an issue Doralyn's next husband might run into, it's that she's a little "high maintenance". I put those words into quotation marks because they are her words, not mine. I never really think of her as high maintenance (whatever that really is) but she feels this to be the case. More than anything, I feel that all woman are high maintenance, when it comes to men trying to navigate their way around them. If you're a man and at all successful with maintaining a positive relationship with a woman, then you are clever, understanding, thoughtful, caring and empathetic. That's 5% of the time. The other 95%---well---it's a friggin' crapshoot, and we all know it.
It has occurred to me that something other than my physical demise might pave the way for Doralyn's next husband. One of these days she might just come to her senses and realize that I'm way luckier than she is and then I might just find myself dumped like a hot potato. This, of course, would be heartbreaking for me but would, at the same time, cause a lot of other male hearts to start ticking with a little more urgency. I know the feeling!
I can't imagine it would be long before suitors in all shapes and sizes showed up at her door, maybe even the same door that used to be our door, who knows? Of course, all the poor, fat, bald ones would be politely re-directed but, in the end, there would be Doralyn's next husband. And his money!
So my job, for the next few years at least, is to remain "viable"---as healthy as I am able and as charmingly acquiescent as I can be. I will try and stay away from her laundry and I will try not to eat the last piece of chocolate. I'll buy the odd gift and I'll get out of her hair for a few hours. And, as always, I will bow down to whatever force of nature brought this amazing woman into my life!
*I wrote this blog post a couple of days ago, when the vote to not support same sex marriages was announced. I was all set to post it when I discovered that there had actually been a miscount and that the Anglican Church of Canada would now be allowing their clergy to perform such ceremonies. At that point, it suddenly seemed pointless to post the blog. Upon further reflection, however, I am going ahead and posting it. Mainly because they felt it was something they actually needed to vote on and secondarily, that it was as close at it was* Yesterday, as I was going through Twitter, I ran across a report, posted by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, on the decision by the Anglican Church of Canada to not support same-sex marriages. Yes, you read that correctly, to not support same-sex marriages. If you'd like, you can read that report here. This decision was reached after a vote at the end of the six-day Anglican General Synod, attended by 200 delegates. In order for the resolution supporting same-sex marriages to have passed, it would have needed two-thirds support from three different orders---lay, clergy, and bishops. The lay and bishops were for it but the clergy (the guys who would ultimately be the ones performing the same-sex ceremonies) were narrowly against it.
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| Almost blew it..... |
I was both surprised and shocked at this and, quite frankly, rather ashamed.
In a world where same-sex unions seem to have finally been accepted by the majority for what they are---simply two people who share the common bond of love for one another and wish to have it legally recognized and celebrated---it seems ludicrous and backward-thinking that an entity such as the Anglican Church of Canada should go out of its way to oppose them.
Granted, the report indicates that the vote was extremely close and could not have actually been any closer. This is very small consolation. In this day and age, they shouldn't even have needed to vote---it should have been, to use a golf term, a "gimme". The Anglican Church of Canada really should have said to itself holy cow, there are couples out there who are dedicated and loving to each other and all they want to do is get married in a church and, by God, we should help them DO that!! What the vote actually indicates, though, is that some Anglicans are actually saying to themselves same-sex marriages? eww....that's kind of ICKY....!
At this point, I just wanted to offer a little personal background on myself.
I am an avowed atheist. As a young child, however, I was raised in the Anglican Church, believed in Jesus and God, felt strongly about my religion and at one point even thought that being a clergyman was what I wanted to be when I grew up. And then I grew up! I have this clear recollection of the priest telling us near the end of our confirmation classes that, once we were confirmed, we would then be able to make adult decisions about church. My first adult decision, fueled at least partially by being in the throes of puberty at the time, was to stop attending! And that was the last time I was an active member of the Anglican church. Since that time, in the total absence of any proof or evidence that there actually is a God, I have become an atheist.
Now, I told you all that simply to explain why it is that this decision by the Anglican Church has me as riled up as it does. There is a vestigial part of me which wishes, even though I am not an active participant in the church, that at least the Anglicans could have had the decency to do what I think is totally right in this case. This they have failed to do and this now the reason for my shame.
I read the article, from the beginning, with shock and a modicum of disbelief. Part way down, however, my shock and disbelief turned to sadness and anger as I read the part about the Anglican minister, Rev. Allison Courey, who also happens to be a lesbian, who said that "many of us" had committed suicide because "death was better than being rejected by God".
This made me angry on a couple of different levels. Firstly, it seems that a simple recognition and acceptance of same-sex couples in the Anglican church might have gone a long way toward preventing this kind of tragedy. Secondly, the idea that anyone could feel "rejected by God" based on the legislation and beliefs of a bunch of Anglican bishops and clergy seems ludicrous to me.
This is where my atheism steps in. I truly don't believe there is a God and so I also truly believe you cannot be "rejected by God". On the off-chance that there is some form of God then I don't believe he's going to let a bunch of humans on earth decide who he's going to reject or accept. It makes no sense to me that it might work this way. My advice to any same-sex couple who wanted to get married would be to go ahead and do that any old way you can and know deep in your hearts that God loves and supports you, regardless of what the Anglican church might say or believe. If God exists, I'm pretty sure He exists with or without churches!
One of the other very disturbing things I read about in the article was when one of the younger speakers who was against the motion to allow same-sex marriage got up and declared that "God did not create another Adam, He created a woman." Okay, it always bothers me when people take the Bible literally... you know, ignoring all the evidence of pre-history and evolution. And if by some infinitesimal chance God did create Adam then he pretty well had to create Eve or the whole story ends there. After that, though, all bets were off!
Here's another part which struck me as I read the article---the language. Here's a list of some of the words used: delegates, resolution, voted, percentage, debate, speakers, legislative, amend, authority, discussions, divisive. Now do any of these words sound like they have anything to do with spirituality!? Or does it sound a little more like current American news channels...?
Okay, you have made me ashamed, Anglican Church of Canada, and I am pretty sure you've shamed, shocked and disillusioned many of your own faithful. Whether they stick around and continue to worship under these circumstances is hard to say. I know that I wouldn't but, then again, I left ages ago!
