Every morning he switches on the radio to my favourite station. He hopes it will help. Most of the time I barely notice it.
Flashback to the sixties, people living in the cities you got beatniks crossed with hippies sporting horizontal stripes and small goatees play a jazzy, minor chord, learn to smoke, renounce the lord
It’s a raucous, shambolic, ranting wreck of a song, which ends with a well-oiled Leonard chanting.
It was a restless, fitful time. At one or two or three in the morning I’d carefully ease out of bed and head for the loungeroom, well away from the sleeping family.
Vin Maskell Palliative care hospital ward, Melbourne, 2014 The yellow line takes you to the Multiple Sclerosis ward. Green for Motor Neurone Disease. Blue for Parkinson’s Disease. You keep an eye on the yellow line as you side-step trolleys and wheelchairs, patients and nurses, volunteers and other visitors.
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.
Vin Maskell Café, La Trobe St, Melbourne. Lunchtime June 2010 Some songs need fresh air. They need to be able to breathe again. They need to be able to float away into space and not come into our orbit for a good while.