I’ve yet to find anybody else here with grey hair.  It’s possible that there are a few 70-somethings roaming the grounds … but maybe they’ve dyed their hair!

Today I’m wearing my “I Have The Body Of A God” t-shirt, featuring a round-belly Laughing Buddha dancing at Dour.  There’s a physical resemblance.  No one has commented on my current attire but hope springs eternal. 

I’m surrounded by flat-bellied and muscular young men.  I can’t quite remember if that was a part of my history.  Oh, well … I have a cool t-shirt.

I danced at Dub Corner yesterday.  The band was in the middle, surrounded by us festival folks.  Off to the side was a tall bank of speakers. As I glanced over there, my mouth dropped open.  There were three rows of young dancers facing the speakers.  The faces of the front row were about a metre from the blasting sound.  Earplugs or not, there goes the hearing of oodles of teens.  “Don’t do that to yourself!”

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in the shade at a picnic table when I noticed hundreds of people walking or jogging across the green towards one of the Dour stages – Le Labo.  Soon they were rockin’ to Roland Cristal, throwing their arms in the air in a packed room under a blessed roof.

“Hmm … perhaps tomorrow.”

And tomorrow came.

I showed up at Le Labo early … and the crowd grew fast.  Soon we were under the spell of Roland.  I too got to wave my hands high and move my hips beyond my range of motion.

And then …

Roland’s directions were in French but I caught on with a little help from my neighbours.  We all made circles.  Mine was six souls.  Four steps in and four steps out … then groove to the right as a sweet unit.  Loud, loud, loud.  And a neighbouring group banging into me on the outstep.  So I banged back!  “Hold your ground, Bruce!”

And then …

A congo line – many of them.  I was swept along with the sweaty 20-year-olds … sometimes stumbling as the pace increased.  (What am I doing here?  >  Having fun.  Don’t you remember?)

The venue was full to the brim.  Dancing became up-and-down.  There was no room for back-and-forth.  I was rubbing against young female and male bodies.  Was it sexual?  No!  It was survival.  Once I was on the way to the ground, and someone’s hand supported me.

I was getting woozy in the press and the heat.  And there was no exit that I could comprehend.  “You chose to come into a Cristal extravaganza, Bruce.  Suck it up!”

It’s hours later.  Once Roland’s show was fini and we were spilled out into the open air, I stopped for some slow motion food and then plodded home to my Tip-up and lay down – for two hours.

I’m still pooped as I write.  I wanted to tell you about another thing that happened in Roland’s show.  I knew the moment had a name but I couldn’t remember it.  So I Googled “passing someone over an audience”.  Here’s the AI response:

This most commonly refers to the act of publicly introducing a speaker to an audience.  It involves giving the speaker credibility by highlighting their background, expertise and the relevance of their topic to the audience.  This introduction helps to engage the audience and prepare them to listen attentively to the speaker.

No, that’s wasn’t it.  The correct term is crowdsurfing.  The photo shows some folks looking to the right.  Roland has just been passed virtually over me.  I was smashed away from the action as the young ones wanted to touch him.  I survived nicely.

It’s 9:00 pm.  I have no more dancing in me.  I think I’ll read my book for awhile.  Here’s to more energy tomorrow. 

Goodnight

Last week two people gave me recommendations about who I should see at Dour.  My friend Franky had one list and Doctor Eva another.

This afternoon one of the bands was playing in The Garage … Maria Iskariot.  She was advertised as wild and free.  Accurate, I’d say.

The energy was sky high – Maria’s strident voice and her two virtuoso guitar players.  Plus the light show … and I was only a few metres away.  As I love saying, Maria “filled the room”, all the way from screaming to tender.

Despite what I said yesterday, the roofed venue was a blessing.  It was hot out in French Belgium.

How in the world did I sleep last night, with the nearby bass notes thumping my bed till 3:00 am?  Somehow I got seven hours.  Life continues to be a mystery.

I got through the night with two fluffy blankets and heavy socks.  Cold in the Tip-up.  By 8:00 am, however, the sun was toasting me through the tent’s fabric.  It seems there’s no middle ground in my festival life.

This afternoon, at a stage called Dub Corner, my ass and the rest of me boogied.  A few folks glanced at the gyrating senior but mostly people were absorbed with the music and their friends.  Fine with me.  There was no floor to dance on, just grass, and I kept stumbling, feet sticking in the uneven stuff.

***

Yesterday, after I’d received a tiny locker for charging my cell phone,  I had a thought:

You recorded the access code on your phone, which is exactly the device that will be safely stowed away in the locker.  Perhaps you should write it down.

I protested, reasoning that I was an intelligent young man who could remember seven digits.  But the conservative side of me won the day, seeing that I was often tired from the heat and the leg shimmying.

And although I’d prefer not to have the label “conservative” applied to me, today I needed the sheet of paper.

***

Soon I’m heading to De Bazaal, the main stage, with lots of room for thousands of partygoers.  And for much of the space there’s a floor.  So the running shoes can fly!

I’ll send a photo of the De Bazaal action later tonight.  Promise.

But first, here’s a shot of my palace, accompanied by other palaces, with De Bazaal in the background:

Home sweet five-day home.

And … I was floor-dancing tonight, as opposed to the grass version.  I could move my feet … in either wondrous or ordinary ways.  I can’t remember.

I just left the second show.  Got tired of the DJ pleading with us to “Make some noise!”  De Bazaal will continue for four more hours.  I won’t.

Homeward to my Tip-up.  Let’s dance again tomorrow.

Here I am at 9:30, my high-tech earplugs fully employed, the bass sounds from the main stage flying over me from behind …

And apparently the evening has just begun!  People I’ve met say that the earliest that quiet will come is 3:00 am.  Not exactly my usual lifestyle.

There are seven stages, only three of which are rolling on Day One.  It looks like five of them are under a roof in the open air.  I walked into two of them and gazed through chain link fences for the others.  They don’t appeal.

So … tomorrow I’ll focus on the two with blue sky above.  The main one, with huge light panels, is called De Bazaal.  Three young men told me that’s where the “mainstream” festival goers gather.  Not for these guys.  Tonight, though, I’ll take a pic for this post.

I’m meeting Casper, one of the three, around 6:00 tomorrow at Dub Corner,  the cool and open open open stage where those in the know go.

I knew stuff would go wrong in my newbie life today … and I wasn’t disappointed.

The train from Brussels had us all exit at Mons, which wasn’t the expected destination of Saint-Gislain.  Oh well, a group of 20 somethings were happy to have me tag along.

The shuttle bus from the train station to the Dour was caught in a traffic jam.  Seems like thousands of cars like festivals too.

I eventually lined up to register for my Tip-up – a triangular tent-like structure with a wooden frame and sturdy fabric walls on a wooden base.  After 3:00 tonight I should sleep fine on my mattress, and with my provided pillow, sheets and blanket.

It took close to an hour till I was at the front of the line.  (Sigh)  But the result was produced and I settled in.  I’ll include a photo tomorrow.

Two single mattresses.  I asked a woman to accompany me to Dour for major dancing but she said no.  (Sigh again)

I wore my pink “Be Kind” t-shirt and several folks applauded my choice.  People seemed curious (and pleased) that an old guy was in their midst.

Food and accommodation resources surround the festival site with its seven stages.  Security was tight and lengthy to get into the music area.  But then I was in!  An hour ago I was dancing in De Bazaal – awkwardly with my backpack.  Tomorrow I’ll make sure not to be weighted down.  Now I’m writing back at my Tip-up home.

And I just made an executive decision: I don’t want to head back now to De Bazaal for thorough leg shaking.  I’m going to seek my covers and slide into dreamland accompanied by a rousing bass beat and my earplugs.  Horizontal sounds good.

I’ll find an Internet pic of De Bazaal and include it in this post.

Bet you’re not staying up till 3:00!

I wonder if lines can teach me anything.  My small mind says “No” … but I do have another mind.

Long ago someone told me about “senior”, and she or he wasn’t talking about old people.  Let’s say I look at my morning and see two possibilities for how I’ll fill the afternoon.  They’re both good.  But one is senior to the other.  It’s the one which quivers my soul, which feels most like home.  “Go down that path.”

And so we have lines …

Here’s one arrangement:

I prefer curves to straights, the organic to the man-made.  To meander rather than sprint.  Yes, I still need to accomplish the tasks of the day … but there is more.

I figure we all have curves inside, pointing to vastness, connection, peace.  But can they breathe?  Do they see the light of day?  Is there release or compression?

And now another configuration:

I like this one better

I’ve sat with them many a time in Izy Coffee.  Their native language is French.  They’re fluent in Dutch and struggle in English.  And what shines through … they’re nice people.

They laugh a lot together and are happy to share their smiles with me.

I found out this morning that Tita and Jacques have been married for fifty years.  They used to travel a lot but less so now.  What is supreme are their children and grandchildren.

I asked Jacques what he’s learned about women after so many years with Tita.

She’s a lovely lady

When I pressed for more detail, he added …

She’s such a good cook

And … the other (smile)

I figured out that he was talking about sex, which is certainly a fine thing to be good at.  Jacques beamed at his wife.

Now Tita’s turn:

He gives me space to be myself

And that says it all.

I looked at the two of them and wondered if they ever stop smiling at each other.

Jacques again:

Tita loves painting

I asked her to share one of her favourites with me.  I wasn’t expecting it to be three-dimensional …

I love the colours.  I love the teeth.  I love the eye.  Well done, Tita

***

A lovely morning hour

With two fine young human beings

…

And when I asked for a photo

They shared a chair

On Wednesday I show up at the Dour Festival at the south end of Belgium.  It’s techno, hip hop, rock … and God knows what else.  And I will dance for five days.

To be clear, I expect a rhythm: dance, talk, lie down, dance …  perhaps a whole bunch of rest with flailing arms and legs between.  My fellow festival goers, thousands of them, will be far younger than me, and able to shake their booties far longer at a stretch.  And so what?

A boogieing 76-year-old will no doubt be an unusual sight.  But then again maybe not.  I might find a group of senior rockers.

No matter the age, I’ll be surrounded by folks happy in their drugs.  Good for them.  Not for me.

I wonder about the heat and humidity, about whether I’ll be able to sleep if the music goes on till 3:00 am, about what my muscles and lungs will have to say after hours of dancing.  “Well, wonder away, Bruce.  You’ll deal with whatever comes your way … and you’ll express.”

Many moons ago, my wife Jody and I went to my staff Christmas party.  Music started.  We got up to dance.  I threw myself around in gay abandon.  And I remember Jody saying …

What is that?

She was referring to my dancing.

I wonder if I’ll get the same response on Wednesday.  Or will I just blend in? 

(Not likely)

No, that’s not me.  But it’s my club … Basic-Fit.  I’ve been a member for two years, focusing on stretching and aerobics on the elliptical machine.

However there’s been an error in my ways – hardly any strength training.  Months ago I occasionally did my routine of thirteen resistance exercises on the Basic-Fit machines.  Bicep curl, leg extension, hip abduction, etcetera.  But I let that fade away.

On Thursday I returned to the thirteen.  I lowered my previous weight for most of the exercises, and still I struggled.  “Naturally, Bruce.  Did you expect something different?”

I’d been doing pen-and-paper notations of weight, number of sets and number of repetitions.  Yesterday I decided to look for an app for this.  I found “Hevy”, and this morning I’ll begin.  It looks like an easy way to chart my progress.  And it’s clear now: I want to progress over the weeks … and years.  Not to have bulging muscles and a V-shaped waist.  But to be strong!  So I can live in my apartment and its fifty steps up from the street for a long time.

I’ve loved stats for many years.  And there have been times when I’ve let go of “How am I doing?”  Now, with respect to health, I want stats again.  I want to see my steps on the path.  Three months ago I’d have told you “no stats” is better.  And look at me now.  I laugh.

Okay … I’m off to the gym.  Hevy and me.  It’s exciting.

I like looking at faces.  However if the person is sitting in the same room, I can’t just stare to see the glorious individuality.  That’s not polite.

Even though we’re in a public place, the variety shows clearly: smooth skin, wrinkled skin; high cheek bones, drooping jowls; smiling, frowning, yelling, crying; vacant eyes and those brimming with life.

For lengthy study, it’s far better to peruse faces in stone or wood.  They’re fine with me lingering.  And I do.

Here are some of my favourites.  I say that their expressions are different from one another … but not better or worse.

Hello, everybody

I have hobbies … some of them strange.  For instance, I look at people and sense how alive they are.  No judgment, just looking.

Long ago, 52 years to be exact, I managed the laundry at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Alberta, Canada.  I remember two people especially.  One was a teenaged guy who worked for me.  It looked like he had given up on life already.  Emotionally flat, the world’s weight on his shoulders.  I didn’t know how to help.

Then there was the purchaser for the hotel.  He had to be 70 or more.  Every time I walked into his office, I was given a gift … his presence, his joie de vivre, his understanding of my young life.

Part of me concluded “I guess it takes time” to become yourself, to become light, to see the blessing life is.

***

And now it’s today … just a few years into the future.  It’s my turn to be the old guy.

I’m falling in love with an 18-year-old tennis player I see on TV – Mirra Andreeva.  She’s spontaneous, silly, so herself.

Two days ago, she hit a ball to her opponent that won the match.  But she was so dialed in that she didn’t get that it was over.  Head down, she was preparing for the next shot.  Then she looked up and saw a stadium of fans standing and cheering.

Big smile, and this look as she ran over to shake hands with the other player:

She and Emma Navarro laughed at the net.  Emma had just lost in Wimbledon, one of the biggest tournaments in the world, but it felt that she too was swept up in Mirra’s spirit.

***

And then there was yesterday.  Mirra’s coach Conchita Martinez was playing a doubles match in the “Legends” part of the tournament.  In 1994 Conchita was Wimbledon champion.

So what happens?  Mirra shows up to cheer on her coach …

So “out there” … as we say in Canada.  So much for needing an advanced age to discover your joy! 

Here’s a closeup of Mirra’s hat:

The night before, this is what Mirra had to say:

I will come to the court and support and obviously coach.  That’s my time to get back at her

Love it!

And during the match:

You’d better win this game

Keep it up!

And somewhere I read that Mirra also yelled something like this:

You’re the best player … on this court

***

Thank you, Mirra

You inspire me

Sometimes when I sit with someone I sense that their eyes are not quite with mine.  Just missing the target.  And so there’s no real connection.

Lovely are the other times, when there is a quiet union of two souls … perhaps in joy, perhaps in despair.  Whatever is there is shared.

I have two paintings at home that show the second way.  Here’s the first:

There is a line of light between the eyes.  The compassion of one for the suffering of the other, and a silent “Thank you” in return.

I was walking by Izy Coffee yesterday.  I recognized the barista through the big window.  I waved.  She waved back.  There was contact across the metres.  A panel of glass couldn’t stop it.  Only five seconds.  And enough.

Here’s my second painting.  Also the line …

Simple … brief … profound

And needed