Leo C.

On the evening of our high school graduation, the senior class poured into the school's gym for an all-night party. We were dealt hands of poker, given pizza and popcorn and party favors (a collapsible laundry hamper that would serve us well in the dorms during our freshman year of college the following fall). The party let out at around 6 a.m., so after that some of us went to the local beach and then out to breakfast. I was lost and I was nervous and I was scared... I was anxious to move on from my high school life. Ready to move out the house I grew up in, and scared to meet some kids outside of my insular bubble.

After the beach, I popped my Leonard Cohen CD in my car's player and listened to it while waiting in the restaurant parking lot for my friend's to arrive. I'm not sure how he did it, but Cohen seemed to know what I needed at the moment, and he delivered it to me with some of his greatest songs. Bird on a Wire, Marianne, Suzanne... He sang about beauty and loneliness and loss and love and revelations. Every time I go back to these songs, I go back to that early morning after graduation, to the parking lot of that breakfast place, to my indecision, to my numbness, to my quiet angst.

A few months ago I listened to what is now one of my favorite radio docs ever. I listened to it in my bed, in the dark, late at night before falling into one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had. If you're a fan of Cohen's, take 44 minutes and listen to the whole thing. If you've never heard his music before, take 44 minutes and listen to the whole thing. (you'll have to scroll down to the middle of the page where it says, "if it be your will.")

Yesterday, Terri G. asked Leonard some questions. He responded.