With a scowl that could scorch the tops of crème brûlée, I would stalk through the bar to the alleyway to glower outside until the song ended. Even the rotting potato peels and pools of stale beer were preferable to hearing it again.
My heart hurts as we head towards Port Arthur. So much can depend on one moment; the café we walk into, the car that stops. And as we drive, I tell you about my moment.
In 2014 I applied for a one-month writing residency in Ólafsfjörður, a remote Icelandic fishing village near the Arctic Circle. To my shock, I was accepted within the week.
I think of my past snakes, all those blue eyes and banjos over the years, the late night knocks and needs that kept my heart shielded and my eyes always on the door.
Rijn Collins Melbourne, 2016 I know little about Cohen, but I’m learning about you. You tell me a story as we drive, and I turn towards you, my hands out to catch the falling words.
...Jacek Koman owned that studio. He snarled, sang, and sneered. I had never before watched a character of mine brought to life, off the page and into the room. The experience was intoxicating....
Rijn Collins Joutsa, Finland. October 2015 The feminist in me battles with the linguist, and I waver between correcting his English and biting his arm. I do neither, as the song on stage floats into my awareness.
Rijn Collins Northcote, 2007 They took the chairs closest to the door, leaving me the couch. I realised too late that this blocked my exit. The tall one stared at me, his mouth slightly open. Sideburns grinned. And then the CD player whirred into action and gave me an omen, straight from 1971: the bluesy wail of I Smell Trouble. And I did. Fuck, did I ever.
Rijn Collins Jackson, Mississippi, August 2012 With Hurricane Isaac approaching, our bed and breakfast evacuated and New Orleans airport closed, we had little choice but to jump on a train and head north.
Rijn Collins Berlin, August 2013 My head against a train window, I watch Berlin slide by and listen to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.