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.

A hopeless task? … Not at all

An adventure? … Absolutely

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?

I say … maybe

Let there be love around me
May it flow in and out
May it reach all I see
Let there be love

Let there be calm in this daily round
A sighing into life
Carried by the winds of time
Let there be love

Let there be joy in hearts that soar
Eyes wide and the mouth a tiny "O"
A sparkle, a bounce, a dance
Let there be love

Let there be struggle as we see the day
Moving towards it all - sweet or sour
Passing beyond that which seems to block
Let there be love

Let there be softness in our eyes
Beholding the pains and sorrows around
We've all been inside the hurt
Let there be love

Let there be wonder in the humdrum
A majesty in the simplest things
Applauding the spirit of each living one
Let there be love

Let there be peace across our many years
A smile that says "Well done"
A quiet nod that we gave and give 
Let there be love

Let there be you and me together
Seeing the shining face across the way
Being entered, inundated, blessed
Let there be love

Let there be "Yes" in a whisper
A thank you to all that has come my way
Richer, wider, longer, brighter 
Let there be love

Let there be endings ... and beginnings
The freshness of a newly born rose
The unknown beckoning: "Please come here"
Let there be love

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)

***

Now … for those steps up to my apartment

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?

I remain perplexed

And that’s okay

Life is full of mysteries

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

***

The future is waiting for us

Laura and I were out and about in Gent again yesterday. Sometimes I knew what was around the next corner … and sometimes I didn’t.

I’m curious about people. I want to know what they have to say. So I start conversations.

We stopped in front of the most mysterious building. Peeling coral paint, a fig tree growing out of the sidewalk, a worn sign speaking of a long ago café. So dark through the windows but I could make out a long table, wooden sculptures (including a wise elephant), and ghostly shapes fading into black.

With us stood a bearded man holding his bicycle. He too wondered about past and present life through the locked door. A kindred spirit! Our new friend spoke of another pub now closed, one festooned with bicycles. “That’s Lieven!” I offered. “My neighbour.” And indeed it was. We shared a love for dark spaces.

And off he rode with a wave.

***

It was a second umbrella day but we had our moments. A tiny street ended at the Lieve River. As Laura and I gazed at the water, it brightened. And off to the right was the Gravensteen castle:

Such beauty in our afternoon. My head dreamt away until I heard …

“Bruce!”

I turned to see my cello classmate Sarah. She and I laugh a lot during the group lessons … so why not continue now? Some of the talk was about the left hand on the fingerboard but it was larger than that. It was an embrace of life, and we drew Laura in.

And then the music faded as Sarah walked away. A second wave.

***

I wanted to show Laura the narrow, turning streets of the Patershol, the oldest neighbourhood of Gent and only steps from my home.

I love the wet cobblestones. They whisper to me in their shining. Now an umbrella floated towards us, accompanied by two women. The words “Why not?” came into my mind. I took their picture:

Excuse me, I’m a photographer from National Geographic. The photo I just took of you will appear in our February issue

They stared for a few seconds. Then it was smiles and a laugh. We paused our lives for a minute or two and then they were off into their world again. No wave. The umbrella needed to be held.

***

We had dinner at Le Botaniste. I had pesto toast, adorned with spirals of zucchini, sundried tomatoes, and other yummies. I said to Laura that pesto was my favourite flavour. “I love avocado.” > “But Bruce – there’s no avocado in pesto.”

Oops. My culinary deficiencies exposed again!

I’m pretty sure our server overheard all this. She was a happy young woman. I asked what her name was. What returned were syllables that I didn’t recognize. We laughed as she coached me. “It’s ‘Gember’. In English that’s ‘Ginger’.” Such a simple concept but apparently beyond the Canadian brain.

***

And so it went

Human beings are the joy

I tried to surprise Laura at the train station.  I wanted to sneak up behind her and say “Have you ever heard of the Evolutionary Collective?”  Sadly there were many cars on the train and a flood of people exiting.  I couldn’t find her.

I hustled back to our arranged meeting spot and sat down.  A minute later, here comes a familiar face.  We smiled from a distance and hugged from up close.  Reunion.

After a stop at my apartment so she could drop off her stuff, we dipsy-doodled through the streets of Gent centrum.  It was raining.  But so what?  We had warm coats and an umbrella.

I wanted Laura to experience Izy Coffee, a homey locale for me, where I’ve had so many conversations.  And now another one.  I can’t remember what we talked about but the words were sparkled with smiles.  Two friends who had never before been in the same room.

After coffee, I asked Laura to take the lead, to follow where her nose led her.  Pretty soon it took us to St. Bavo’s Cathedral, one of Gent’s famous churches.  She wanted to go in, and so we did … both of us for the first time.

Inside was immense.  I told Laura I wanted to find a statue that spoke to me.  We parted ways.  Within a hundred steps a shining lady offered a welcome:

We had a nice talk.

Laura was drawn to a ring of candles.  And soon our eyes met once more.

As we walked and talked throughout our day, what each of us had to say was real.  We went to moments and people who have touched our lives.

I wanted to know about Laura’s work.  She told me that her small group coordinates the sustainability efforts of many organizations.  Thanks partially to the work of Laura and her friends, the whole is truly bigger than the sum of its parts.

Some of what Laura said I didn’t understand.  I’m okay with that.  Seeing the commitment in her eyes was enough.

I asked her where was home.  Her response showed that there is no central location in geography.  Home is when she’s with lovely people.  Laura agreed that she’s a nomad.  I smiled to feel the sameness and the difference between us.  Home for me is people and it is Gent.

I knew I could talk about anything with Laura and she would simply get it.  No evaluation or comparison.  So I mentioned two times in my life I had failed to complete a task – riding my bicycle across Canada and becoming a teacher in the Evolutionary Collective.  Almost completely I’ve let those experiences go.  They both bring a tiny smile to my face.

Laura and I had a long dinner at Shazanna, a delicious Italian restaurant.  It really didn’t matter what we talked about.  Again, I can’t remember.  We were together.

Our day ended with a walk on the wet cobblestones of the Patershol – the oldest area of Gent.  Restaurants and cafés showed the faces of diners and drinkers … couples and small groups enjoying each other’s presence. 

Welcome to my home, Laura

This is my guest bedroom. It’s a lovely space. Only three people have slept here. Tonight will be the fourth.

Laura is a friend from the Evolutionary Collective. The group of us meet on Zoom. And Laura and I have never met … physically. Today at 11:00 am she’ll walk into the lobby of the Gent Sint-Pieters train station. I’ll be there.

Previously when I met people who I’d only talked to online, my first comment often was “You have legs!” Maybe the same today.

Laura will be here till Monday. I could be all proactive, armed with a list of things she must see. No thanks. She’ll survive quite nicely without walking the halls of Gravensteen castle.

There are places I love in Ghent and I can feel the pull of having Laura experience them too. Well … maybe not! We have a blank canvas of a weekend. Who knows what colours we’ll pick, what scenes?

Laura will choose. She’ll feel into what is moving her in the moment, and we’ll do that, go there. What of the new will I discover? I wonder.

Tonight I choose. We have a reservation at my favourite restaurant in Ghent – Shazanna. It’s the home of astonishing pasta and no doubt other delights. We’ll smile a lot.

(I love/hate it when WordPress corrects my spelling mistakes. I just typed “smike”. It was changed to “smoke”. We definitely won’t be doing a lot of that.)

I await my friend

Last night ten of us showed up at Gregor Samsa to read a play – Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

In the photo, you see me playing George (cleverly disguised as Richard Burton) and Rani playing Martha (looking a lot like Elizabeth Taylor).  We took on the roles for Act One and Act Three.  Harry and Lola played the couple in Act Two.

We were all fierce.

Here’s what Wikipedia says about the play:

George, an associate professor of history at a small New England college, and his wife Martha, the daughter of the university president, return home drunk from a party.  Martha has invited a young married couple she met at the party for a drink.  The guests arrive – Nick, a biology professor, and his wife, Honey – just before 2:30 A.M.  As the four drink, Martha and George engage in scathing verbal abuse in front of Nick and Honey.  The younger couple is first embarrassed and later entangled.

Do you want to get a feel for us last night?  Okay, here we go:

George:  You’re a monster – you are.
Martha:  I’m loud and I’m vulgar, and I wear the pants in the house because somebody’s got to, but I am not a monster. I’m not.
George:  You’re a spoiled, self-indulgent, willful, dirty-minded, liquor-ridden ...
Martha:  SNAP! It went SNAP! I’m not gonna try to get through to you anymore. There was a second back there, yeah, there was a second, just a second when I could have gotten through to you, when maybe we could have cut through all this, this CRAP. But it’s past, and I’m not gonna try.

***

George:  Martha, in my mind you’re buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it’s much quieter.

***

Martha:  I looked at you tonight and you weren’t there … And I’m gonna howl it out, and I’m not gonna give a damn what I do and I’m gonna make the biggest God damn explosion you’ve ever heard.

***

George:  And please keep your clothes on, too. There aren’t many more sickening sights in this world than you with a few drinks in you and your skirt up over your head.

***

Martha: I swear … if you existed, I’d divorce you.  I haven’t been able to see you for years.  You’re a blank, a cipher.

***

George:  Once a month, Martha. I’ve gotten used to it. Once a month, and we get Misunderstood Martha, the goodhearted girl underneath the barnacles. The little miss that the touch of kindness will bring to bloom again. And I believed it more times than I’d like to admit because I don’t like to think I’m that much of a sucker. But I don’t believe you, I just don’t believe you! There is no moment, there is NO moment anymore when we could come together.

***

Martha:  George … who is good to me – whom I revile, who can keep learning the games we play as quickly as I can change them. Who can make me happy and I do not wish to be happy. Yes, I do wish to be happy. George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad.

***

Rani and I loved snarling our lines – spitting them out.

After all was said and done, we sat in the glorious room with its deep green walls and wooden beams above.  We talked.  We analyzed.  My body was there … I was not.  I was still George, seething at Martha, ready to give the middle finger to anyone who crossed me.

George only floated away when my eyes closed in bed

But now, as I write this, my lips tighten once more