This is Max.  He’s the resident doggie at Lunchroom Martens, where I often eat breakfast.

This morning he was sitting right here, on the softest seat.  I scratched his head, and then under his chin.  I’m sure I heard “Ahh …” come out of his mouth.

Then he turned on his back, offering his tummy.  So I scratched there too.  We were both happy.

I tried for a photo of “paws up, tummy available” but Max was too fast for my phone.  So I settled for a straight-on shot.

Max’s posture got me thinking.  How can we human beings touch each other physically outside of romance?  Should I show up at Izy Coffee, lie on the black couch, pull my shirt up, expose my tummy and wait for other customers to rub?  Or invite someone else to reveal their middle so I can touch there?

Perhaps not

If not that, then what?

A Hug

A lingering one, soft.  No squeezing the breath out of the other, no back slapping, no limp one-armed version (which isn’t a hug at all).

Just staying close for awhile … silent contact.

Fingers Down the Cheek

My right hand.  The backs of the fingers sliding down the left cheek of the loved one.  Silent again.

Does this fall within the realm of romance or can it also be a gesture of love between friends?  I say the second.

Rubbing the Feet

Watching TV together.  The friend lying on the couch, their feet on my lap.  The slow back-and-forth of my hand.

***

Quiet moments

Love obvious

Time left behind

“A feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause”

“Being overcome in sorrow”

I’m not feeling melancholy now but I’m guessing the man sitting near me in Izy Coffee is.  He gazes out the window long and long, his head resting on his hand.  There is a sagging.

Should I tell melancholy to stay away?  “Only cheerful thoughts, please.”  Of course not.  Both pains and joys often come to visit, unbidden.

I usually raise my eyes to the far horizon accompanied by all of us … but not always.  My head also knows the support of my hand when life is weary.

The photo of the girl speaks volumes.  May each of us be with her.  We know.  And also with the work of art you’re about to see … such despair.

This heartbreakingly beautiful sculpture is called Melancolie.  It was created by Albert György (living in Switzerland, but born in Romania) and can be found in Geneva in a small park on the promenade (Quai du Mont Blanc) along the shore of Lake Geneva.

Enough with the thoughts from the mouth

Time for the seeing from the eyes

When I read a book, there are so many pages.  What will I carry forth into the rest of my life?  Will it be the sweet memory of a person, or also something they said?

I love the novel Northern Lights, written by Philip Pullman.  Lyra, 12-years-old, is an inspiration to me.  She is one brave girl.  I smile when I think of her.

Is there a quotation, something for me to hold onto?  I know:

“I want to come North,” Lyra said so they could all hear it.  “I want to come and help rescue the kids.”

“We will go,” she said to Pantalaimon.  “Let ’em try to stop us.  We will !” 

***

Or a song …

Angel by Sarah McLaughlan.  I remember her voice soaring as she gave us the words.  I remember being entranced with the beauty, with the sadness.

And a few lines linger …

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear

***

Then a poem.  Here is “When Death Comes” by Mary Oliver.  The whole thing.

Will you take a line or two with you as you leave?  Will I?

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
When death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut

When death comes like the measle-pox
When death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering …
What is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood
And I look upon time as no more than an idea
And I consider eternity as another possibility

And I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular

And each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence

And each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened or full of argument

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world

***

For me, it’s these words which will remain:

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement

Those few are enough for me.

And so, as my Wednesday joins with Thursday, I take these:

We will go!

This dark cold hotel room

A bride married to amazement

On I go … accompanied

Two weeks ago, I sang “The Parting Glass” at an open mic session in Minard.  I was happy.  I knew I reached many in the audience.

My friend Anouk videoed my performance.  Later I nervously watched it … not perfect, but then what is?  I sang with passion, with a few stray notes.  All was well.

A month or two ago, my friend Lyrinda in Canada asked to see a video of me singing.  Last Friday I sent her this one.  Then, for three days, no response.

Yesterday my mind took over.  A very young mind, reeking with fear.  “She didn’t like my singing!”  What to do?  Sit here forever, wondering, hoping she’ll say something?  Or act?

Guess I’m not emotionally able to sit with the unknown.  I texted her:

Hi Lyrinda,

I sent you a video of me singing a few days ago, and you didn’t comment on it.  I can feel glimpses of a previous low self-esteem creeping in.  “Maybe Lyrinda thinks I sang poorly!”

Silly Bruce.

I don’t need you to compliment me.  Please give me some straight feedback about the singing.  Thank you, my friend.

Lyrinda’s response?  She’d been busy and hadn’t seen the video.  She’ll watch it when she gets home.

Oh. 

As the American author Mark Twain said:

I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, most of which never happened

Lyrinda watched the video.  She replied …

I am clapping with my heart! That was very moving my friend.

***

Silly me indeed

The Internet can inspire.  So can teenagers.

But first me.  I ask myself how I can be a whole person.  One answer that comes is to speak the truth with no antagonism, no desire to hurt another human being.

But what if my words make the other person feel uncomfortable?  Wait a minute, I didn’t express that well.  I don’t make the other one uncomfortable.  They feel the discomfort after I speak.  The source of the feeling is them. 

Hmm …  Should I play it safe in life, tiptoeing around people’s sensitivities?  Or do I go for it, simply expressing what is in my soul.  Having it be fine however they respond.  I know my answer.

Which brings me to the drama students at Santa Rosa High School in California.  No tiptoeing here …

Last November, after rehearsing for four months, the Santa Rosa students opened their fall play, “Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead” by Bert V. Royal.  In its imagining of the characters from Peanuts grown up and in high school, Linus is a stoner.  Lucy is in a juvenile institution.  Pigpen is homophobic, which is a problem, because Charlie Brown is experimenting with his sexuality.

…

After opening night, citing “complaints” – without elaborating – the school district suddenly canceled the play’s remaining performances.

…

“This group refused to be silenced. They mobilized their community, pushed back against censorship driven by fear, and ultimately staged their production, selling out performances.  But that hurdle seems to be the beginning of a larger issue of silencing and oppression,” Cheena Moslen said.

The students created a one-act play they called “[Redacted]”.  Such an appropriate title.  Such a sad comment on our times.  Such courage.

***

Courage

Today I opened wide my eyes
And stared with wonder and surprise
To see beneath November skies
An apple blossom peer
Upon a branch as bleak as night
It gleamed exultant on my sight
A fairy beacon burning bright
Of hope and cheer

“Alas!” said I, “poor foolish thing
Have you mistaken this for Spring?
Behold, the thrush has taken wing
And Winter’s near”

Serene it seemed to lift its head
“The Winter’s wrath I do not dread
Because I am,” it proudly said
“A Pioneer”

“Some apple blossom must be first
With beauty’s urgency to burst
Into a world for joy athirst
And so I dare
And I shall see what none shall see
December skies gloom over me
And mock them with my April glee
And fearless fare”

“And I shall hear what none shall hear
The hardy robin piping clear
The Storm King gallop dark and drear
Across the sky
And I shall know what none shall know
The silent kisses of the snow
The Christmas candles’ silver glow
Before I die”

“Then from your frost-gemmed window pane
One morning you will look in vain
My smile of delicate disdain
No more to see
But though I pass before my time
And perish in the grale and grime
Maybe you’ll have a little rhyme
To spare for me”

(Robert Service)

What if true persons are circles whose centers are nowhere and whose circumferences are everywhere, interpenetrating each other with an intimacy that we can scarcely imagine?  (Beatrice Bruteau)

What does it mean to have a centre that’s nowhere?  I don’t know … but I can feel it.

Who is this I who has no location?

Don’t I need a spot that I can call home?  Or is home anywhere?

Is it that I have no centre or that my centre doesn’t exist in space and time?

I’m getting delightfully confused.  Questions that don’t sound rational.  Questions with no known answers.

I’m wandering through “circles whose centers are nowhere” with no path, no direction.

I’m lost in the words … and falling into “no words”.

And how about having a circumference that’s everywhere?  Beyond my physical view at the moment. 

Perhaps there’s nothing outside of the circle.  I embrace everyone, every thing, every place.

The voice says “Find photos from across the Earth, and out into space.  Feel your home in them all.”

Where am I?

Who am I?

And who is this I?

As for “an intimacy that we can scarcely imagine”, maybe poetry is the best way this can be expressed …

How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light
I love thee freely, as men strive for right
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints.  I love thee with the breath
Smiles, tears, of all my life.  And, if God choose
I shall but love thee better after death

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I’m staying with my friends Lydia, Lore and Baziel for three days, in Maarkedal.

I didn’t sleep well last night.  I wonder if it was because the road outside my window was silent.  (The Oudburg in Gent is anything but.)

Lydia, Baziel and I went shopping this morning and I tried lightening the festivities by sneaking special items into the cart, such as incontinence pads.  (Don’t laugh, Bruce.  Your time may well be coming.)

Even as we enjoyed each other’s presence, my body was sagging.  And my head was dull.  Homeward bound …

I walked into the living room and there sat the leather couch.  It was Lydia’s late husband Jo’s favourite spot to snooze.  I miss my dear friend, who died in October, 2022.

“What’s good enough for Jo is good enough for me,” I thought.  I found an orange blanket and pulled it over my body.  Got rid of my glasses and lumpy wallet … and was gone.  I guess I woke up here and there, savouring the softness, but essentially it was one-and-a-half hours before I returned to the planet.

The equation is simple:

I’m tired  =  Go to sleep

None of those tedious judgments about it being 1:30 pm or the oldness of the body.  Just sleep … like Jo.

At one point, I turned my head to the right and saw the blur of a tree – a gorgeous oval, bare of leaves.  A bird flew sideways and landed on a branch.  And the eyelids closed once more.

***

Now I’m vertical again

Tapping away

Happy in the moment

And recalling the sweetness of rest

Eight of us gathered in my apartment last night to read Neil Simon’s play “Jake’s Women”.  Here are a few snapshots:

1.  I began by apologizing for something I did at our reading last month.  People responded with versions of “You don’t have to apologize” but I knew the truth.  “I was wrong to do that and I’m sorry.” 

Then I could breathe again, coming to the present moment rather than one weeks ago.

2.  For the first part of the play, I was Edith – Jake’s therapist.  One of the principles of acting is to “stay in character”.  I didn’t.  Edith was so funny and I couldn’t stop laughing.

Jake has all these imaginary conversations with the women in his life.  He’s a creator of dialogue.

Jake:  Forget it, Edith.  You’re not an analyst.  You’re a mother with a diploma.

Edith:  And what are you?  A martyr!  A self-made sufferer!  Don’t you know you’re better than that, Jake?  You’re a warm, loving, giving human being with incredible sensitivity.  And Maggie doesn’t even appreciate that.

Jake:  You really think so?

Edith:  I don’t know.  They’re your words.  I’m just moving my lips.

***

And again …

Edith:  If you want to suffer, you suffer.  If you want to be fat, you’re fat.  We make our own destiny, Jake.

Jake:  Is that why you’re still unmarried?

Edith:  No.  Most men are shits.

3.  Jake dominates the play but there are some juicy female roles.  Still, the real treat for us readers is to take on the weird mystery that is Jake.  There were four opportunities last night to try him on for size.  Two men and two women went for it.

And they were great!  Throwing themselves into his fantasies and delusions.  Plus each of them were reading his words for the first time!  Brilliant.  Four flavours.

4.  It was getting towards the end, with midnight appearing on the horizon.  I had been staring at my wee screen for close to three hours and things were blurring.  My job for this last part was the stage directions.  They were in italics … tiny italics.

In the middle of someone’s speech, there was a line of italics looming.  I couldn’t read the words.  The actor paused.  Hearing no input from me, he or she kept going!  Thank you, dear intuitive one.  We’re a team here.

***

Seven human beings left my home happy

What could be better on a Thursday evening?

I slept well

There is power coming from the mouth … quietly.  A vibration in the air.  As words emerge, they touch the listeners around.  They land lightly and seep inside.  And we are changed.

I’m reading Inkheart.  It’s a tender story.  Mo is the father.  When he reads aloud, time stops …

Everything disappeared: the red walls of the church, the faces of Capricorn’s men … There was nothing but Mo’s voice and the pictures forming in their minds from the letters on the page.

To think of the magic he could have worked in her room with his voice, a voice that gave a different flavour to every word, made every sentence a melody!  Even Cockerell had forgotten his knife and tongues he was supposed to cut out, and was listening with a faraway expression on his face.  Flatnose was staring into space, enraptured, as if a pirate ship with all sails set were truly cruising in through one of the church windows.  The other men were equally entranced … There was not a sound to be heard but Mo’s voice bringing the letters and words on the page to life.  (daughter Meggie)

“I’ve read that book many times,” he said, in a voice that shook, “but I never saw it all as vividly as I did today.  And I didn’t just see it … I smelled it, the salt and the tar and the musty odour of the whole accursed island.”  (Darius)

“Why is she looking so admiringly at her father?  Because no one ever read aloud like that … I saw it all, the sea and the island, as clear as if I could touch it, and I don’t expect it was any different for your daughter.”  (Elinor, Mo’s aunt)

A wish, a yearning almost, to be carried away by his voice once more, transported far away to a place where they could forget everything, even themselves

Then he continued, and Meggie and Elinor listened until his voice had carried them far, far away.  Finally, they went to sleep.

Lulled by the tones

I was sitting with my neighbour Dirk, talking about marvelous plays.  He started waxing poetic about Shakespeare’s Macbeth.  I just listened, transfixed by his love of drama.

And then a word came into my mind: monologue.  “How strange,” I thought.  “What’s it doing there?” 

I sat some more, falling into all that I don’t know.  And then more words came calling …

“I want to recite a monologue”

Huh?  Alrighty then.  I wondered what else would bubble up from my lips as minutes flowed into days.

I’ve known for months that singing for people is what I want to do.  But reciting someone’s speech from a play?  Who knew?  Certainly not me.

And so I retreated to Google, who kindly presented Gloumov to me.  He had much to say to his beloved Kleopatra in The Diary of a Scoundrel by Alexander Ostrovsky.

“I could be Gloumov!”

Why not?

Although my current ability to memorize is a question, I want to launch into something new.  First I’m learning two songs: Blowin’ in the Wind and Day Is Done, which I’ll sing in March at open mic sessions.  No performances in April since I’ll be in Canada.

But May beckons!

Here’s Gloumov, holding hands with Kleopatra:

Look into my eyes.  Can’t you see there that I’d rather die than cause you a moment’s pain?  Until I met you, I was a shy, timid boy, uncertain of myself, always troubled with longings and desires which you, and you alone, have taught me to understand. 

I was so lonely that I thought I’d lose my reason sometimes, and always I was searching, searching for the one woman in the world on whom I could pin my dreams and hopes.  But I was poor, insignificant and women turned away from me. 

And then I met you.  I shall never forget the first time I saw you – you were wearing that beautiful pink dress with brown bows on.  My heart missed a beat and then started to pound so violently that I thought I should faint.  You were so young, so beautiful, so far, far above me! … When we were introduced, I hardly dared to speak. 

But you didn’t turn away, you weren’t cold and cruel like the other great society ladies of today, you were sweet and gracious and when I told you I loved you, Kleopatra, you listened.  Oh, if you only knew how many times your sweet, gentle smile has stopped me on the very brink of impropriety. 

But even that day when I forgot myself, you didn’t turn me from the house!  Oh, my God, what happiness you’ve given me.  What happiness, what happiness!

I can do this

I want to do this

I will do this