Here is part of the night sky, seen through a super duper telescope. I don’t know what this is. Actually, I don’t know what a lot of life is. Such as a human face …
Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson is an astrophysicist. (I wonder what that really means.) He was being interviewed. It would be easy to assume that he could rightfully say some version of “I know things.” Or maybe not:
I’m baffled all the time. We don’t know what’s driving 96% of the universe. Everybody you know and love and heard of and think about and see in the night sky through a telescope: four percent of the universe.
Huh? Me, with my “reasonable” amount of intelligence, with I believe frequent out-of-the-box thinking, still have no access to most of what is?
(Eyes wide open)
In 1884 English schoolmaster Edwin Abbott Abbott wrote his novel Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions. Everybody lived in length and width, but not in height. Two dimensions, with the third not even conceivable.
Is it so with us?
Despite our richly textured lives, are there vast tracks of space over our horizon?
Those of you who have been reading my words for months may remember that I have a fetish:
Seagulls
When I moved to Gent in January of this year, I fell in love with those who soar. I’d sit on my back terrace with the flow of wings. Moments of heaven.
As spring turned into summer, almost all of my friends left. Were they exploring the skies over Oostende, on the English Channel coast? Probably. Lots to eat on the ocean.
I was sad. Would my second-most-favourite things about Gent ever return? I didn’t have the local knowledge to say.
I became enamoured of pigeons, mourning doves, swallows and tiny darting things of the sky. Most days only one or two gulls met my eyes.
I’ve been so cold lately (or so hot!) My terrace is only a door away but I don’t want to go out there. “I should want to” is a useless thought. I simply need to hunker down and get better.
Late yesterday afternoon, as the sun was preparing to say au revoir, I needed to meditate. I sat in my bedroom chair … and shivered. Soon I was adorned with one hat, one sweater, two coats and mitts! My mind was far from the sweetness of meditation.
Here is what I saw:
I love the high transom windows. Across them, minute by minute, came a cavalcade of gulls. I welcomed them to my home. I thanked them for their beauty: the swooping flight, the tilt of the wings, the sunshine on the belly.
They knew I didn’t have the oomph to sit outside so they made sure my window view included them. Thank you, dear gullies, for saying “Hi.”
I have an experience. And then I try to make sense of the experience … with question after question. What if I just stopped at the experience and lingered there?
Here is an object. I see beauty. That is enough.
My heart wants to stay, to be with this building. Not to analyze, compare or pigeon-hole. Simply to let it wash over me … wave after wave. To welcome the emerald as it enters me. To share it with you.
The questions are crumbling away. They matter not. The need for more words floats into the sky. All that’s left is wonder.
In the wee hours of last night, I had an interview with the owner of a flower shop. Guess that’s a big interest of mine!
I walked into the store, dreaming of colours, of arranging them artfully. Dreaming of being kind to every single customer. Sharing the joy of a young man who wants to wow his girl.
Her eyes bore into me. “Sit down” was an order.
I remember fragments. She snarled. She spat. She made me wrong, over and over.
It was time for me to demo my flower arranging skills … but I’d never done it.
“Not that table! What’s wrong with you? Over there!”
What the fudge is wrong with this woman? I thought. And then …
“Who do you think you are, yelling at me like this? I’m not your servant! Why would I want to work here, in this stinking, toxic pool? I’m got far better places to be.”
“I will not let you infect me with your poison. Find someone else to humiliate.”
“Do you treat your husband this way? Your kids? Is your voice at home venomous like this? Does the word ‘conversation’ mean anything to you?”
“Goodbye.” (And the door slams)
***
O my God! Who was that? > It was you, dear Bruce. Who else could it possibly be?
This wasn’t two weeks ago, when I played George, the man who spat fury at his wife Martha in the reading of the play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? This wasn’t a role. This was me. Some part of me.
So … I ain’t takin’ no shit! I stand up for myself. I refuse to be drawn into the mire.
I wanted to watch a movie last night, something fresh and moving. I had the thought that it would be a film brand new to me, but no … here came First Knight into my head. I’ve seen it several times.
I watch it because of one person – Guinevere, also known as Julia Ormond. She loves both King Arthur and Lancelot. Voilà:
Guinevere’s eyes are with Arthur. I’m enthralled with her presence. I realized this morning that yesterday’s decision about a movie was animated by another woman … Elise. I want to experience her presence on the silver screen. What you see before you is the 30-year-old woman who will become the 65-year-old Elise.
Elise was not in my thoughts last night. After First Knight, I heard myself say “A second film?” Usually I know that one is enough.
Enola Holmes! Another movie that has welcomed my multiple viewings. So I watched the first third before bed called me home. Enola is the younger sister of Maycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Her pseudonym is Millie Bobby Brown. Voilà again:
What you see before you is the 16-year-old girl who will become the 65-year-old Elise. Eyes direct, head held high, so much herself.
There’s a scene where Sherlock and Maycroft are getting off a train, not having seen Enola for years.
Here are the approximate words:
Maycroft: You look a mess! And where is your hat?
Enola: I don’t wear hats. They make my hair itch.
Maycroft: You’re not wearing gloves!
Enola: I don’t own gloves.
Maycroft (to Sherlock): She doesn’t own gloves!
I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t find any gloves in Elise’s apartment either. (Smiling)
***
And so my search for Elise continues. To find some unique woman who builds on the energy of 16 and 30 … rather than letting it crumble into dust.
You may have heard me on these pages talk about Elise … the next love of my life. She’s a grand person.
The only possible glitch is that I haven’t met her yet. I created a human being and gave her a name.
“What is she like?” you ask. Well … she loves Ghent, she loves music, she loves dancing. (At the moment, however, my body is weak, and dancing is in another universe.)
I wonder what her minimum age would be. It seems arbitrary but I’ll say it anyway: 55 or 60. I’m 74. The idea of Elise being alone in five years makes me sad. She needs to be somewhat close to my time on the planet.
More important is the attitude she brings. Is she interested in the lives of other people – all of them? I hope so. Please be kind.
I also have sneaky “green light” or “red light” thoughts when Elise comes to my apartment. (If you see Elise before I do, don’t tell her this stuff!)
My walls are bright: red, purple, green, yellow, blue and orange. Elise will react with words when she sees my rooms. If she doesn’t like the palate, good for her. At least I’ll hear the truth. Give me truth, dear one!
Elise will see my cello in the living room and my keyboard in the bedroom. She’ll be curious about me playing them. She’ll say something.
Is it okay when some folks visit me and say nothing about the cello? Of course. There are no rules. But those human beings aren’t Elise.
Here’s a work of art in my kitchen:
Elise will see beyond the letters and numbers and ask aloud “What am I looking at?” How were these symbols created in this “painting”?
And now my favourite revealing of a possible future. Here’s what sits in my living room:
Elise will see the bundle of colours and wonder. My tomorrow love won’t stop there, however. She’ll rise from the couch and pick up the vibrant roundness.
And then I’ll know
***
Should I let you know tomorrow what could happen when she picks it up?
This is not going to be a “poor me” post. It will be a fascination with what’s happening to me in the moment.
I’ve often thought that it’s fine to write about what was true at some point in the past but it’s far cooler to talk about NOW.
I suspect food poisoning but I don’t know. The nausea came first last night and then the fever. I kept muttering stuff to myself – incomprehensible then, unremembered now.
My brain says that I woke up 10 or 12 times last night. My feet and hands were freezing, my body burning up. Dizzy then, still dizzy now. Maybe it would be kinder to myself not to write today … but here I am stumbling forward.
It seemed to take me forever this morning to pull myself out of bed. I could feel in my bones that I needed to get out of the apartment. I didn’t want to lie in bed all day, a little lump of protoplasm.
Everything was so slow. I had trouble buttoning my shirt. I wear compression stockings because of a blood clot I had, but today I looked at them and knew I didn’t have the strength to get them on. I gazed at the stairs down from my apartment and wondered how I could climb them later in the day.
I like having breakfast in the cafeteria of the HEMA department store. I’ve always climbed the 25 or so steps to the second floor. “I don’t need to take the elevator!” Except today I did. Thank God I got my ego out of the way. “This is a first, Bruce. Why not celebrate it?”
My group cello lesson is today at 4:00. I e-mailed my teacher to say I’m not coming. I can’t imagine being able to hold the bow, much less passionately playing the pieces.
Oh! I’m sitting IZY Coffee writing this. A class of young kids wearing their neon green vests just came bouncing by. I smiled. I’m far from being 12-years-old and there’s no bounce in me right now. C’est la vie.
(Wow. I’m wearing out, wearing down. There’s not much of me left but I’m pleased that I’m writing about all this. And the end is near …)
I’ve been looking forward to the play reading tonight at Gregor Samsa. It’s so much fun to change clothes. But how, oh how, would I follow the flow of the lines spoken by us? How would I figure how to say certain words on the fly?
Writing is easy for me. Following a script is not. So unless there’s some divine rehabilitation during the next few hours, I won’t be going. (Sigh)
Over the last few months and years, I’ve done a lot of nice things for people – usually small but sometimes big. I want to enhance others’ lives, even a wee bit.
I don’t do it so they’ll do something nice in return. It’s not an exchange … it’s love.
I can think of nine or ten folks over the years who never said “Thank you.” And I don’t understand. I don’t need lavish praise but I was hoping that these people felt the impact of my actions … and would be willing to express something.
They’re not bad. But something is missing.
I’ve received e-mails from some of these humans “sort of” saying thank you, but it seemed to be coming from an angle, not straight on.
Of course I can’t control the actions of others but I wish some of these nine had just looked me in the eyes and said “Thank you.”
Is it something in how their parents raised them? Maybe getting absorbed in the dominant “Me first” culture? Or they just never think of it?
Rumi was a mystical poet of the 13th century. I wish I could have had coffee with him.
***
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing
We do this. We earn that. But do we feel the pull of what’s next in our lives?
***
It doesn’t interest me how old you are I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive
Ahh … am I willing to be a fool? To be looked at askance by most of humanity?
***
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon … I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain
Forward please, ever forward, into life, into the depths of it … whether sorrow or ecstasy
***
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul
Perhaps you don’t like me. I can smile with that. Perhaps I am incomprehensible to you. I remain tall
***
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children
The demons will continue to come close What needs to be done to further the glory of living? And will I do it despite the trials of body and soul?
***
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back
Did I mention “forward”? Let’s go into the flames together
Bruce's Blog 