The screen of my phone lights up: 1 new text message. From my dad.
“I want to share this artist with you… Leonard Cohen.”
Attached to it is a Spotify link that takes me to songs sung with the deepest, darkest voice I’ve heard in a long time. Deep, dark, and sweet. There is something soothing about it, as if it gives my soul safety in a way.
This was a few weeks back, no more than four. And I fell for the deep and the dark and the sweet and the soothing. And now the deep, dark, sweet and soothing has fallen himself. Saddening, to see another great artist get away from the world in this year. Of course, it is always hurtful to lose something beautiful, and so if you’re mourning this loss: I’m there with you. But other than sadness, I feel gratitude, to have found out about him just before he fell. (Thanks dad.) And I’m even more grateful to find out that the man with the deep voice didn’t just write beautiful songs, but also gave himself in the form of poetry and prose.
“I wonder how many people in this city
live in furnished rooms.
Late at night when i look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window
looking back at me
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desks
and write this down.”
“I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.
If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside the door.”
Gorgeous. And so, I am surrounding myself with the sounds and the knowledge of the dead this weekend. Because the living have freaked me out a bit this week, and the lost always have advice worth taking.