My Inspiration--"...look at me Leonard"

By Bianca Lakoseljac: Writer in Residence 

A poet, a musician, a novelist, a philosopher in his own way—a Canadian icon! A man. Yet, why do I think of Leonard Cohen as more than a man—as an immortal? Could it be because he has been my life long inspiration?

When Antanas Sileika graciously described my novel, Stone Woman, as “…a glorious visit to the late sixties when Leonard Cohen and others played the Riverboat Café on Yorkville Avenue and the anti-war movement raged in its northern expression…” he captured the essence I had hoped the novel would embody—to transport my readers into the milieu of the sixties and the creative energy that spurred innovation in music and literature and art and architecture—period unlike any other in Toronto history. Leonard Cohen was an inspiration then. He has been an inspiration to millions since. He has been, and always will be, my inspiration.

In Stone Woman, my character Liza, Blossom’s mother, describes Leonard Cohen’s performance at Toronto’s 1967 Love-in as follows: “She [Liza] had gone to see Leonard Cohen and Buffy Saint Marie’s performance, and the excitement of the event took hold of her. She can see it now—Cohen is singing her favourites—“Suzanne,” and “So Long Marianne,” while wearing flowers behind his ears, bare feet planted in the grass. He tells people he loves everybody and spring had called him to come to Toronto.”

This is how I think of Leonard Cohen—barefoot with a flower behind his ear.

Yesterday evening, as I drove north on the winding moonlit Highway 27 toward my home on Georgian Bay, the 9 pm news came on and the CBC radio announcer simply said that he was just informed—Leonard Cohen had died. He was 82. The announcer’s voice was smooth and even and emotionless as is should’ve been. And it cut to the bone.

Earlier, after hosting an author talk and reading from Stone Woman at the Brentwood Library branch in Toronto, I decided to drive back home to Woodland Beach instead of staying at my condominium in the High Park area. It was a clear evening with freshness in the air, perfect for reveries while traveling along a nearly empty country road keeping company with CBC’s evening programs.

News of the death of a public figure is somehow always a shock. Especially a sudden death.  As if public figures have some sort of immunity from death. Not that Leonard Cohen’s death was sudden. Talk of his latest album as foreshadowing his death has been in the media and on my mind. Yet, this glimmer of hope that refuses to succumb to reality, led me to suppose it would not happen so soon, not just yet. I even tried to avoid listening to songs from his latest release—unusual for me who has over the years spent infinite hours immersed in his subterranean voice. The recent foretelling of his imminent death has truly been an irritant to me.  

When The Guardian wrote that “Leonard Cohen felt obliged to announce that reports of his death, or at least his imminent death, have been exaggerated. ‘I said was ready to die recently,’ he told the audience at a listening in Los Angeles for his 14^th studio album. ‘And I think I was exaggerating. I’ve always been into self-dramatization. I intend to live forever,’” I was relieved.  

But now, the announcer’s voice sounded serious—there was no tongue in his cheek, I was sure. And reality hit. I pulled to the side and turned off the van. The landscape was deserted. I stepped out, faced the moon, glanced along the heaving hillocks, surreal under the reflection of the fuchsia sky, and said a prayer. Although I am not Buddhist nor Jewish, I didn’t think Cohen would mind.

I found myself thinking how fortunate we his fans are that his financial woes have driven him to tour and give us the chance to see him perform. A selfish notion, I know. But it was the first thing that came to mind.

I recall two other times feeling such sadness at the news of public figure’s death: when Princess Diana died in 1997, and Pierre Trudeau in 2000.

Over the decades, Leonard Cohen has inspired my stories as well as my personal life.

In the short story, “The Perfect Woman,” published in my collection, Bridge in the Rain, my protagonist Lila finds respite from the distress of a dysfunctional marriage in the lyrics of Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Raincoat. 

This morning, when my daughter called at 7 am to ask if I’d heard that Leonard Cohen had died, the shock in her voice said it all. She is a poised, level headed young woman—in our talks often the voice of reason. This time, her voice told me how much his poetry and music had also meant to her.

It is, after all, thanks to my thoughtful daughter that I had been fortunate to see Leonard Cohen in concert.  Being on top of his tour schedule, she bought the tickets for us as soon as they became available, and so we were able to attend some of his best performances, his legendary three-hour concerts—including a pre-tour concert at Copps Coliseum in Hamilton, we believe was the best of all—being at a relatively small venue.  

When my children were young, before the internet and the DVD screens facing a toddler’s seat invaded the family van, my husband and I often played Cohen’s music on our drives to the countryside, or our trips to the cottage, or a journey to Florida. Cohen’s was our favourite, “grown up” music, and we took turns playing it between our children’s—that began with Sesame Street and over the years advanced to The Tragically Hip, Pearl Jam, Our Lady Peace, Alice in Chains, Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails, Red Hot Chilli Peppers… to name just a few—at which point our “family” outings became rare, to say the least. And then, a discovery—among my son’s and daughter’s books—such as Tom Robbins’ Skinny Legs and All, and, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas, and David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and of course, piles of CDs—I came across Cohen’s The Future, I’m Your Man, and Songs of Love and Hate.  My first reaction of surprise was quickly replaced by an inward glow I could not subdue. And I believe the ember still gleams somewhere in me.

As I write this article, I have an urgent need to pull out some of my favourite books by Cohen, and lay them on my desk. Book covers always provide comfort and inspiration—one reason I am not able to switch over to reading e-books. I ruminate through my bookshelves and bring out a well-thumbed copy of Book of Longing—his collection of poetry and drawings (which by the way I’ve seen in my daughter’s room numerous times). I retrieve a rather frail and brittle copy of Beautiful Losers—Cohen’s legendary second novel, a complex musing of the author’s philosophy of the 60s. My connection to this book is the part on Kateri Tekakwitha, a Mohawk saint whose image I often visit during the summer months at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons, near Midland, not far from where I live.    

I put on his Ten New Songs and let my emotions flood in—Alexandra Leaving has always done this to me, I think to myself. And mythological scenes that come to life in my imagination. But now, it takes on another meaning. After the album is finished I put on Dear Heather—one song that always stays with me is Because Of.

Am I drawn to it because of the puzzle it presents? Because of this moment of transcendence—when the women he commemorates “become naked in their different ways” and invite the poet into their inner lives? And the question is not—what does he see? The question is—what do we see in our own selves?

Cohen’s lyrics have a personal resonance to me. They have been part of my inner life. They have invited me to look into my own self, to find my own meaning, my own inspiration, my own philosophy on life and love and family and spirituality—and yes, death—as that is also part of being human. Leonard Cohen has been and will remain, my inspiration. And so in farewell, I join all those women in his songs and humbly say, “…look at me Leonard.”