They shouldn’t be important … measures of “how much”. It’s the moment-to-moment experiencing of people, of life, that should rule the day.
But my ego intrudes.
Four days ago I wrote about the number of views I got on Jetpack in January. So strange – it kept bouncing back and forth between 1303 and 1304. Today that number is 1304, one more than November’s 1303 (!)
I thought that writing about this might cause the obsession to float away but apparently I’m still hooked.
On a typical day, Jetpack tells me that I had 20 or 30 views. I woke up this morning to find that yesterday’s total was 997!
My Jetpack day starts at 6:00 am Belgium time (midnight in eastern North America). Right now it’s 10:45 am, so nearly five hours after today’s counting started. How many views today? 506!
What is happening here? Jetpack also tells me the country of origin for my views. About 95% of yesterday and today’s views came from one country. Any guess?
There I am in an elementary school gym. The floor is covered with a foot of water (30 cm). And it’s my fault. I have a bucket and I’m using it to get rid of the water … an endless task. I think of using a siphon but I don’t have a hose and anyway I can’t remember how to use one. A quiet desperation descends.
***
There was a time when Jody and I loved playing a video game called Myst. A grand story of worlds and journeys and puzzles. We were immersed in the pastel beauty of it all. No killing, no blood, lots of wonder.
Here in Belgium the words “video game” haven’t entered my mind … until a few days ago. I sat in Izy Coffee with a friend of mine I’ll call Jerome. We share a love of writing, and our conversation flowed on.
I asked him what work he does, and guess what? He develops video games. And so a question:
“Can I still buy Myst? Or are there modern games that have a similar vibe of exploration?”
He had a few recommendations, such as Blue Prince and Neyyah. And I glimpsed a new chapter opening.
Back at home, I continued my research. Among the delicacies revealed was a title called Ether One. In the words of someone named AI:
Ether One is a first-person adventure puzzle game that explores the fragility of memory and dementia, where players act as “Restorers” navigating a patient’s fractured mind.
It addresses deep, emotional themes of dementia, mental illness and personal identity through a non-intrusive, narrative-focused approach.
Ether One is characterized by its artistic, often nostalgic and sometimes eerie environments, emphasizing atmosphere over fast-paced action.
Once again I want to explore worlds, this time not of geography but of the mind. I’ve recently started volunteering at a care home, being with patients who have dementia.
Ether One is calling me … and my wallet has followed.
I’m only half an hour into the gameplay but here are comments from those who have walked farther along the path:
There are games that are so powerfully crafted that the emotional response – by the time they game ends – is overwhelming. Then all you can do is ponder everything that happened. You just sit there. You’re sad. Upset. Satisfied.
Ether One made me feel something very real in a time of immense difficulty in my life. For that, I thank it.
Don’t be surprised if you find yourself writing emails to people you’ve lost touch with afterward. This is one of those stories that makes you care all the more about the things you have in the real world.
For those who read my post yesterday, the number when I went to bed last night was 1303. This morning it’s 1304. I smile both ways.
***
Now. Where is my heart now?
Open … closed … vast … focused … free … bound. They’re all part of a life but too often I don’t notice.
How about this very moment? I’m sitting in Lloyd Coffee Eatery, tapping away. Now a pause to look around. A young man nearby, working on his laptop. I send love. I’m curious about his life. I like this moment. I’m aware.
I sense that the vastness is available … now and now and now. Even in the moments of tightness.
Some Buddhist human being said this:
But isn’t the point of the cushion to be able to get off the cushion? I might be able to hit one thousand free throws in a row, but if I can’t do it in a game-time situation, what’s the point? When my mother-in-law is in town, or when I get cut off in traffic – that’s when I need my practice. When the sink is full of dishes. What’s the point of sitting for an hour if I can’t forgive my partner for finishing all the almond milk?
I’m writing a lot lately about the strangeness of my mind. I remain curious.
I’d like to think of me as a “mature” person, not attached to anyone or anything, but sometimes it just doesn’t work out.
I write on a platform called Jetpack (also known as WordPress) and transfer my posts to Facebook. Jetpack has the seductive feature of tracking the number of views I get in a day or month.
My record for monthly views is 1594, followed by 1372 and 1303. As January was closing its doors, I was in the 1200’s.
I can do it … reach my third highest views!
Did I mention the word “attachment”? I was thoroughly absorbed in my statistics.
On Saturday, January 31, I only needed 21 views to reach a total of 1304. Piece of cake … but one that I had no control over.
In my Jetpack settings, midnight is based on the Eastern Time Zone in North America, which equates to 6:00 am Belgian time. When I went to bed at 11:00 pm, I was at 1300. That’s a nice even number milestone. But there was a third place to be won! Obsession equals a frequently interrupted sleep.
About 3:00 am – 1302. Breathe, Bruce, breathe! Actually Sleep, Bruce, sleep!
My alarm went off at 8:00, also known as the moment of truth.
1303
(Sigh)
A tie score … good but not great
And I wanted great
And now the kicker: throughout Sunday, February 1, my January total changed four times! From 1303 to 1304, to 1303, 1304, 1303. (Sigh again)
Oh … the joy and angst
I went to bed last night with a tie score, and resigned myself to this roller coaster being over. The views for last month were 1303.
Yesterday Lucinda Brand won the Elite Women’s race at the Cyclocross World Championships after dominating the cyclocross season in Europe. It was a well-derserved victory. And you see the joy …
Cyclocross is a winter version of cycling, mostly on dirt trails that go to mud after a rain. It’s intense … and exciting!
From 2023 to 2025, there was another World Champion – Fem van Empel. A few months ago, Fem left the world of cycling and talked openly about her burnout:
My own perfectionism caused me to lose myself as a person, so that I only focused on what I was good at.
I was more of an athlete than a person. And now I know: I am more than just Fem the cyclist.
Giving an opinion is actually the easiest thing you can do. I don’t think many people realise what that can do to a young athlete or anyone else.
Fresh from her victory, Lucinda had this to say:
I hope Fem finds herself again and that she finds joy in the things she does. I don’t really follow her, but I saw on social media that she’s been on some nice trips. I think that’s very good. That she’s doing things she enjoys again. Things she truly loves. That she goes to bed feeling like she’s had a wonderful day. It doesn’t matter what that is. If she finds the joy in cycling again, that would be great. If she doesn’t return to cycling, that’s not a problem either. She’s already had a fantastic career as a cyclist. Cycling isn’t the most important thing in life. Being happy is much more important.
I sat in Lloyd Coffee Eatery yesterday looking at bodies. Young ones, old ones; thin and fat; lean and blobby; smooth and wrinkled; white and brown and black.
No judgments … just a marvelling at the infinite variety.
I thought of the Spirit inside, and whether it reaches the outside. What if we could see each other’s hearts as easily as their skin and bones? Well … we can. The openness or closeness comes from the eyes.
I decided to seek out paintings of the physical heart, in the realms of ease and disease. Here are images that speak to me. I wonder if they have things to say to you …
Look at the fancy clothes. Look at the beaming faces. I think weddings are such grand celebrations, especially if the bride and groom really kiss and if everyone’s boogieing at the dance. It’s all a big “Yes!” to life.
I’m hoping that before I die I discover my next beloved. I’ve named her “Elise”. If “Monique” is the one, I’ll make the change.
I had lunch with my friend Maryna yesterday. She knows the story of my future romance. And she had an idea …
“Let’s see what Chat GPT has to say.”
So she took my picture and inputted something like “Find the ideal woman for Bruce.”
Another friend told me about Chat GPT a year ago but I’ve never explored the app.
Maryna turned her phone to my eyes.
Woh!
Disoriented (I still am), boggled, yearning …
Are you ready for this? Elise and me. Sorry I didn’t invite you to the wedding.
I wonder what it’s like to be a woman. I’ve been married, and have seen the issues that Jody went through. But that’s not experiencing it in my body. I sense that I’ve had previous lives, some of them no doubt as a woman, but I don’t remember.
And so … I want to sing. Words in melody spoken by a woman. That will deepen my empathy, I feel.
On Friday, February 6 I will sing “When I Dream” at an open mic session at Salvatore’s. If you’d like to hear me, come to 113 Sint-Salvatorstraat in Gent at 20:30. It’s a yellow building. I realize that for you North Americans it’s a long flight … but consider it.
Here’s the song:
I could have a mansion That is higher than the trees I could have all the gifts I want And never ask please I could fly to Paris Oh, it’s at my beck and call Why do I go through life With nothing at all?
But when I dream, I dream of you Maybe someday you will come true
I can be the singer Or the clown in every room I can even call someone To take me to the moon I can put my makeup on And drive the men insane I can go to bed alone And never know his name
But when I dream, I dream of you Maybe someday you will come true
There are two lines especially that hit me hard. I wonder if you can guess them.
I need to evolve my understanding of other human beings. “When I Dream” helps.
If every moment you could really see things as they are, every moment you’d be weeping. If I could see more and more clearly, I’d be crying out of sheer joy and wonder, but also out of grief for all I’ve missed and continue to miss. I’d be on my knees, soul brimming with gratitude and reverence and awe for the astounding, beautiful, terrible reality of it all – for everything I’m blessed enough to see, and for all that’s unseen.
(Anonymous … to me)
This is August, the prime character in the movie Wonder. He makes me think.
What does it mean to “see things as they are”? What do I see when I look at August?
How easily negative thoughts come to my mind when I see a face that’s different from most of ours. I’m conditioned by my society, which keeps whispering to me about what’s cool and what’s not.
I see skin. The eyes ask me to see soul. I need to sit down with August and listen to what’s important to him. I need to “see more clearly”.
Sometimes the humanity of a person is bright the moment they walk through the door. Sometimes it needs to be gradually revealed, agedlike fine wine. So be patient, Bruce. The butterfly is coming.
I choose to not have the physical appearance of another person stop me. To not have it be thick and black and my thoughts coming to an abrupt end.
Rather, my seeing needs to be porous, mysterious, and branching out into unknown possibilities …
For those of you who read yesterday’s post, I sang well last night. My eyes met those of the audience, and I touched the hearts of many.
“Remember When The Music” is a profound creation from Harry Chapin. Here’s a sample:
Remember when the music Was a glow on the horizon of every newborn day And as we sang, the sun came up to chase the dark away And life was good, for we knew we could
***
I’m beginning my career in a care home as a volunteer with residents who have dementia. Yesterday our group of fourteen went for a walk through the old streets near the centre.
(The photo you see here is from the Internet – not us)
The staff don’t know that I spent three years managing volunteers at a hospital in Canada. Yesterday my task was simply to walk beside a resident I’ll call Pascal. Other staff and volunteers were pushing folks in wheelchairs. I smiled as I remembered teaching volunteers how to be gentle and alert with patients in wheelchairs. Ah … the chapters of a life.
Pascal didn’t speak English and my Dutch is a work of very slow progress. Plus there’s the fuzziness in his mind. And the probability that he’s known a particular dialect of Dutch all his life – something that’s incomprehensible in mine.
On the surface of things, Pascal and I weren’t a good match, but there were depths available. I composed short sentences, with grammatical mistakes and incorrect pronunciation. But mostly he got my words. And I know he got my intention to be kind. We smiled a lot.
***
The care home is where I want to be
The residents with dementia are whom I want to be with
Bruce's Blog 