The sisters’ cemetery

The place is peaceful, ideal for resting. It is the Manoir d’Youville in Châteauguay, an old summer or resting residence for the Grey Nuns, and now a hotel for gatherings, meetings, retreats, choral weekends as Ganymede does every year.

The manor is located on an island that only has its technical name, as the land touches the main shore. Ganymede was there this weekend for an intensive rehearsal for the June concert. Everything went well except for me, a little before noon on Sunday. A migraine. Many factors could have induced it, including the change of food. I usually eat more fiber than fat and sauces. There are also the intense rehearsals, the Saturday evening, hilarious. But when I laugh too hard, the body escapes like a Vesuvius, tensions liquefy. Too much laughter can kill you?

My room overlooked a hill surrounded by stunted apple trees inhabited by century-old fatigue. During the day, the landscape presents an almost Zen calm or, for some, gloomy. But it is at night that the scene transforms. Montreal’s gleams provoke shadows and mysteries. And when you know that a 19th-century cemetery house stands on top of this hill, you can’t help but think of the old prayers, but especially of the ghosts.

Nevertheless, I would like to spend a few weeks there, notwithstanding the bland food. Being wealthy, I would escape. But I’m not. I am like all of us, eating ordinary bread, living my life with makeshift tools, which is not bad either.

But, once again, that doesn’t stop it. I already have a novel in mind for the future. I may have the title: Quantum wounds. I dream a lot; it’s partly melatonin I’m taking. My life is about drugs. I’m thirsty for ecstasy. And like all poor people, I keep my desires in well-reasoned drawers.