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Dear Nick Cave,

I was at St. Brigid’s in Ottawa last night. I was sitting second row centre, and had a shit-eating grin on my face when you swaggered onto the stage in your pinstripe suit. You might even remember me: in that vast sea of black clothing I was the one in the teal dress and fuschia cardigan.

I’ve never drank beer in a church before, deconsecrated or not, and I’ve never heard someone read about “cunt crunches” and “bullet-proof pussy” in the presence of the Virgin Mary. To say the least, it made an impact.

You’re also a lot funnier than I expected. Just as humble and self-deprecating, but damn funny too. Do you know you fidget a lot? Poke and prod at your fingernails? I found it comforting that you might actually be a bit nervous.

I’ve listened to your music since I was sixteen, but have never seen you live. Your book of lyrics sits beside Frank O’Hara on my shelf. (I enjoy reading it in the bath.) I also think Bukowski is a jerk, but you’ll know I’m not a member of the literati when I tell you I’ve never read anything by John Berryman. (I just learned he committed suicide the year I was born.)

I was quiet when I stood in front of you. Grateful that you signed my book and asked questions so that I would have to say something, instead of appearing mute. You seemed surprised that I had read The Death of Bunny Munro, and I wish I could have told you why I liked it. Instead I noticed how soft your hand was when you offered it.

During the talk, you explained that Bunny doesn’t get redeemed. While that’s probably consistent for a story inspired by the Gospel of Mark and the SCUM Manifesto, it was your claim that redemption isn’t necessary that stuck with me. I’ve always had a hard time trusting a God who wanted to forgive me for being human, save me from being human. And some people simply don’t deserve redemption. But I really liked Bunny Junior. His father was a monster and he loved him anyway. Found the bits that could be loved. In my experience, monsters are like that. You can love them, can’t help but love them, but it doesn’t save them. And that’s just fine.

One last thing: thanks for saying that the life of an artist is more privileged than painful. It was the only time the security guy behind you smiled so big I saw his teeth.

Love always,
Anne