Aerobie

An Aerobie is like a really large Frisbee. It has a huge hole in the centre and flies a very long way. A few months ago in Canada, I looked at my old red one and saw that a large piece had fallen off. Unflyable.

So a decision: Did I want to soar long and strong in Ghent? Or do I let that part of my life go? With no real thought, I went on Amazon and ordered a new one. The skies of Belgium also need to be visited.

Amid the grand unpacking of the last few days sat a brand new green disc. But where to fly it in the density of Ghent? I had heard that Citadel Park was the largest in town so Sarah and I set off to find an airborne home. After much meandering among the trails and trees, I realized that Citadel didn’t have any wide open spaces. I wanted Sarah to have the experience of long distance flying before she returned to the UK tomorrow but alas … that was not to be. Until we found a long and wide cemented place. Would this work?

I believe in huge spaces. When dancing, have enough room to throw the arms out every which way with no fear of hitting a wall. How can life be a flow if it keeps banging into things?

So Sarah and I entered the arena of flight. I had never thrown this disc. I reached back, my arm seeking to remember, and the air parted for a whirling green thing. The landing was nowhere near Sarah, but so what? For the next twenty minutes, the sky welcomed our efforts. And the space worked beautifully!

The sun was behind me as I threw and I saw sitting on a far off hill were four teenagers, shielding their eyes in my direction. They were watching. Finally they got up to leave and my path was clear. I walked over to two of them and silently extended my hand. The first guy smiled. “May we join?” I nodded.

Soon the two of them were testing the limits of distance and speed. Sarah and I smiled too.

Everyone needs to fly

Cello Again

Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?

***

Back in Ghent, I walked into Arpeggio Music. I talked to Harm, the store’s resident cellist. I told my story. He smiled. After a few minutes, he ushered me to a chair and placed a cello between my knees. So familiar. There followed coaching about proper position of the instrument so that the fingers of my left hand could easily press the strings.

I began, sweeping the bow across the strings, then placing my fingers in what they remembered was first position. The tone of notes was revealed, more or less in tune. Now adding the vibrato, the moving of a finger on a string to create a depth of sound, a pulsing of the note that is so sweet.

My eyes widened. There was a 16-year-old in that chair, sitting on the stage of Lawrence Park Collegiate with everyone else during an after-school rehearsal. I knew immediately that this was the right place for me in 2023. I will rent a cello from Arpeggio as soon as one is available, mostly likely within a month. Harm pointed out the front window to a building up the street, known as Kunstacademie De Poel, or in English the Academy of Music, Drama and Dance. “Your future could be there.” Their program starts again in September, and includes cello lessons plus classes in music theory and history.

Harm mentioned that there is an amateur string orchestra in Ghent called Da Capo. Someday, if I practice diligently, I may be able to play with them. They have a concert in nearby Merelbeke on March 11. I’m going … to hear the music and hopefully talk to orchestra members.

I walked into De Poel and talked to a fellow who co-ordinates the rental of instruments there. He said to come back at the end of May if I’m interested and register for the 2023-2024 academic session. I’m interested.

So what will become of my cellist life? Stay tuned.

How Much Is That Cello in the Window?

When I was twelve, a teacher asked me if I’d like to learn a musical instrument. The school was starting an orchestra. I said yes.

So began six years of playing the cello. Rides after school on Fridays to lessons with Mr. Sturm, who played cello in the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. High school concerts featuring symphonies, such as those written by Antonin Dvorak and Ludwig van Beethoven. Playing in the All-City Orchestra for the opening of Toronto’s New City Hall in 1967. And especially feeling a part of the high school orchestra family – strings, winds, brass and percussion.

My self-esteem, mired in the depths of wild acne, was saved by the music. Alas though, when high school graduation loomed and I thought about joining the University of Toronto Orchestra … I said no. “I’m not good enough.” And so the music died.

When I was about 35, someone who knew my history sat me in front of a cello. My heart wasn’t in it, and after ten minutes I stopped. Other than that moment, there was no cello playing or even reminiscing about the orchestra times for 56 years.

Then four months ago weird thoughts began intruding into my normal life. “I’d like to play again.” (Huh! Where’d that come from?) I found myself looking on YouTube for Yo Yo Ma’s playing of a cello classic – The Swan. I was back and forth between Canada and Belgium in the middle of visa challenges but the inklings towards playing still found their way into my soul.

Four weeks ago, the Belgian Government approved my visa! I had to return to Canada for twelve days as the Consulate in Montreal affixed the visa to my passport. I asked myself what I wanted to do with the time. One answer that bubbled up was seeing a Toronto Symphony Orchestra concert. Lo and behold, the only available one had a soloist – a cellist. I leaned over the balcony and felt into the sweet playing of a young man from the UK. Enthralling.

Back in Ghent, I walked into Arpeggio Music. I talked to …

***

Time Out

***

My friend Sarah is visiting from the UK. I got partway through my cello post when hunger drove us to Uncle Babe’s – a hamburger place. We hadn’t eaten for many hours. My hamburger was huge, adorned with mushrooms, and delicious. I made a mistake which has become all too familiar. My ravenous mouth took big bites. Something felt wedged in my throat. I reached for my glass of water and drew enough in to clear the problem. Except it didn’t. I vomited up the water and the blockage was still there. I couldn’t breathe. I made some gagging sound, verging on stunned silence. Without my brain attached, I threw myself up from the table and lurched towards the bar. An employee was yelling at me in Flemish. My hands were on the bar and I was leaning way forward. No air. And the thought: “I’m dying.”

I didn’t die. After I don’t know how long, I felt some air go through. I was drooling on the bar. Eventually a few words. The Flemish man said something in English. “I’m glad you’re alive.” What came out of my mouth was “It’s a really good burger.”

What terror. What embarrassment. I apologized to everyone, including two women sitting at the bar, for scaring them. Of course I had nothing to apologize for, other than a severe lack of judgment.

An hour later, here I am, shaken by it all. It was so clear that I was dying … and then I didn’t.

***

The cello can keep until tomorrow.

What Came Before

Be Here Now is a monumental spiritual book written in 1971 by Ram Dass. It was one of the first expressions in North America of living in the moment, feeling the all of it, whether that was beauty or agony or anything between. Don’t be caught in the woes of the past or the unknowns of the future.

All well and good, and valuable. But there is a place for flowing towards the evolving that is to come, and for allowing past events to wash over us. Tonight was a visit to the land of before.

I went on a nighttime tour of Ghent centrum with an historian named James and about fifteen learners. The darkness above the evening lights of the city showed me the way to long ago. What drove the people of centuries past? What dominated the culture? Tonight there was a lot of nasty stuff on display.

“When the people of Ghent refused to pay extra war taxes in 1540, Emperor Charles made the notables of Ghent go around with a noose around their neck, as a sign that they deserved the gallows. To this day, the noose is the symbol of proud resistance to any form of tyranny and misplaced authority.” What’s missing from this account is the fate of those seventeen civic leaders. Charles decided not to hang them. Instead he had their heads cut off.

We stood in Vrijdagmarkt, an ancient square with a long history of coronations … and executions. I felt long dead human beings, some no doubt waving flags of celebration, and others yelling “Off with his head!” The whole symphony of human behaviour. The most heinous crime back then was apparently circulating counterfeit coins.

We paused before the stone walls of the Old Meat Market Hall. The rich people of the past went inside to buy choice cuts of meat. The poor folks lined up before little shacks attached to the main building. Their dinner consisted of entrails … whatever was left after the good stuff was sold. For these people gossiping wasn’t a good idea. If you were caught, your ears were nailed to the market hall walls for 24 hours. People would wake up and head over to the market for their supplies, wondering who they’d see impaled. The job of decent folks was to throw rotting fruit at the transgressors.

James did a masterful job of painting pictures of the past – some of them inspiring but most deadly. I could give you many more examples but that’s enough revulsion for a day. All I can say is …

Thank God for evolution

May we learn from prior meanness and ignorance

A Young Man of the Mountains

Today it was time to unpack all the boxes that had crossed the ocean. My bed soon became a sea of flotsam and jetsam. At the bottom of one box were some old photos, including … this one.

This is a wayfarer brought back from time, from 1974 to be exact. The Toronto kid had discovered the Rocky Mountains of Alberta. He fell in love with the wildness of Waterton Lakes National Park. He led newbie employees of the Prince of Wales Hotel into the backcountry amid turquoise lakes, switchback trails, grand vistas and peace.

I know this guy. He still exists! Just a different flavour, more attuned to the beauty of an ancient city than to the sunset over the peaks. But in his heart he still wears the t-shirt saying “Get High On Mountains”. The slopes are different now. Music now is a stronger call than mountain passes but the joy of companionship within the adventure is still there.

“Let’s go there, wherever there is, together. Let’s peek past the edge of the world to see what is revealed. Let us be simple, feeling the rhythm of the legs and the notes. Let us be sweetly exhausted in the journey. Let us be free.”

Shall We Read A Play Together?

Marvels continue to visit my life. Gregor Samsa is a bookstore on the Oudburg, owned by Harry from the UK. Last night nine of us sat there in a circle and read the play Hedda Gabler, written by the Norwegian playright Henrik Ibsen in 1891. I’ve never done such a thing.

There were four acts. At the beginning of each, Harry asked us what part we wanted to play. I got to be a shallow husband, a conniving judge, and the person giving stage directions. So cool!

Here’s a sample of the characters, courtesy of Wikipedia:

“Newly married and bored with both her marriage and life” (Hedda)

“An academic who is as interested in research and travel as he is enamoured with his wife” [more actually] (George)

“Desperately wants Hedda and her nephew to have a child” (Aunt Julie)

“Nervous and shy, in an unhappy marriage” (Thea)

“An unscrupulous family friend” (Judge Brack)

“Destroyed his reputation in society by spending his money on depravity” (Eilert)

I had to read plays in high school. Even if I understood all the words, digesting these works was usually a tedious task. “Just tell me what I need to know for the exam.” As an adult, the number of plays I’ve read is approximately zero. Lots of novels, but the constant dialogue in plays wasn’t for me. (I said)

And then there was a circle of human beings, surrounded by tall bookshelves and accompanied by various beverages. I got to inhabit George, not just read his words. Inhabit someone I didn’t like. Spouting on and on about his oh so essential research into a tiny slice of life. Hardly a kind look over to Hedda. A world away from cuddling on the couch.

Oh … it was rock and roll! Stilted language grew in my mouth into a vacant tone of voice. Who cares if George was thoroughly not me? During Act 1, Bruce be damned! Bring on George. And so it was with my literary companions. I could feel each of us, page by page, growing into our parts. Sometimes the voice was strident, at other times a whisper. The stand-ins for Hedda and George often glanced across the room at their adversary. This was no longer Ghent. We were home in Oslo.

It took us nearly three hours to read Hedda Gabler. Time well spent. As the last words on the last page were spoken, we the people sitting in Gregor Samsa burst into applause.

A fine time was had by all.

Pillows

I often think that breakfast is a good idea and I have the perfect place for it about 50 metres from my home – Broodjeszaak Martens. Liva and her daughter Fran have been so welcoming to me whenever I show up.

Sometimes I’ve sat at the counter with my nose pressed up against the window, watching the flow of humanity stroll or ride by on the Oudburg. I love watching the infinite variety.

Today I took a table towards the back of the café, still facing the street. I like long views wherever I can find them. Please don’t make me face a wall.

As you can see, my view included a shelf festooned with red pillows. You may have to zoom in to see what each of them says: “I love you”. Isn’t that the sweetest interior decoration you can imagine? Far better than “Seating limit 20 minutes”.

I love those three words. I love when they’re said in their entirety. Somehow “Love,” at the end of a letter just doesn’t cut it. “Love you” is better but it leaves out who’s doing the loving.

We need more “I love you”s spoken from one soul to another. These are words that are so often withheld between loved ones. I think it’s the biggest “withhold” on the planet.

So … I promise you that the next time I’m in the presence of someone I love, they’ll hear about it.

My Second Favourite Thing About Ghent

You might think that my fav would be the old buildings. Or the rivers and bridges. Or the terraces … also known as patios in Canada.

You’d be wrong.

My number one favourite thing is the people. I can feel the friendly energy in this city and it often comes to my table when I sit down in a pub. Many folks are happy to talk. Of the 400,000 residents, about 80,000 of them are post-secondary students. Ghent is ancient and young. I call it home.

But then there’s my number two favourite. You could guess until the cows come home and not find the answer. Go ahead … knock yourself out.

…………………………………………………………..

Nope. All of your ideas are simply wrong. Would you like a hint? Okay, it’s a living being. And I’ve already mentioned humans as #1 so that’s not it.

The aardvarks, you say? No, I’m pretty sure none of them hang out around here.

All right … it’s a living being that flies. I’ve seen thousands of them since I arrived. They zoom along the Leie River near my home, especially at sunrise and just before sunset. They swoop left and right, they soar, they dive, and I can’t pull my eyes away.

I suppose I’m the only one in town with a seagull fetish but that’s fine. I position myself at a table beside the river on the terrace of the ‘t Kanon pub and watch the show. Couples nearby gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes – I raise my face to the birdie sky.

Today it was sunset before I reached my spot. For the first five minutes there were no seagulls. Also for the second five minutes. I sighed in the probability that I was too late. No gliding wings this evening. It was bittersweet. All I wanted was one gull to show me her majesty. Just one. During the daylight I had seen so many. Now I just wanted one.

For many years I’ve reflected on the absence of something that often is present. The loved one lingers after leaving. The air still ripples with a subtle energy. Usually I smile at the recognition of something beyond the consensus reality. And I smiled tonight.

***

Then a solitary gull grazed the rooftops on its way home …

Tomorrowland

Okay, a skill-testing question:

What’s my favourite type of music?

If you know my history, you’d probably say Bruce Springsteen and Lady Gaga. I love those two … but you’d be wrong.

If you knew of my soujourns in Koerner Hall in Toronto, and my youth as a cello player, classical music might come to mind. I love symphonies with a full orchestra. But again you haven’t found the mother lode.

Are you ready?

Techno or EDM.

Driving beats, all electronic. Fabulous light shows. And dancing! I love the DJ Tiesto and the tunes he spins.

I’ve never been to an EDM festival. I suppose everyone will be twenty. I’ll dance like them but I’ll get tired faster. More breaks. And then back at it.

I arrived in Belgium ten days ago with visions of Tomorrowland in my heart. That’s the techno festival in the appropriately named town of Boom, in eastern Belgium.

Awhile ago I registered for Tomorrowland so I could have a chance of getting a ticket. The pre-sale (with discounted prices) was on January 28. Regular prices on February 4

“I’m going to Tomorrowland” sang in my heart.

I was all set at 5:00 pm on the 28th. I entered the ticket shop beforehand and then the process was random. I lounged on the sofa while staring at my Samsung screen. I waited. Eventually a sign showed up saying that all the discount tickets were sold. Come back next week.

(Sigh)

On Saturday I was ready again. Surely they’ll be many thousands of tickets this time. Bruce and Boom sounded so good.

When I entered the ticket shop before 5:00, a sign told me not to refresh the page or I’d be shunted to the end of the line.

“I’m a smart guy. I can do that.”

5:05 … 5:10. Nothing. I got up to do something, phone in hand. My time in history was approaching!

As I sat down again, I glanced down at the screen. It was the Tomorrowland home page. I guess my jiggling and wiggling had refreshed the page.

“You, Mr. Bruce, are at the end of the line.”

(Sigh again)

The end of the story is that I’m not going to Tomorrowland in 2023.

What I am going to is a smaller EDM festival – Core, which will be for two days in late May in Brussels. What the hell! I’m going to dance with a few thousand fewer of my best friends.

Give me the dance, the lights, the bass notes roaming through my body. I’ll take Brussels, thank you.

Someone Is Smiling On Me

I knew Friday would be a big day. It was time to register with the city of Ghent. My visa to live in Belgium was approved four weeks ago, while I was in Canada. The Belgian Consulate in Montreal attached my brand new visa to the passport and mailed it back to me in Toronto. After I landed in Brussels last Saturday, the rule was that I had eight days to register with Ghent. I tried on Wednesday but the Ghent Administration Office was closed until Friday because they were moving to a new building.

Okay, those are the details. On Friday, I put all the originals of the necessary documents in my little backpack and started walking to Woodrow Wilsonplein, the square in Ghent where the office is. Momentous. Changing countries. New city. New home.

I took a number and after twenty minutes walked up to a friendly service representative. All that happened was that I was given an appointment for February 21. The cool thing was how welcoming she was. And making the appointment was good enough to fulfill my eight-day responsibility.

There was a skip in my step as I wandered away from the office. Soon I was beside the Leie River, and a row of blue metal chairs invited me to take a load off … to celebrate. So I did. My mind was as airy as the seagulls flying by. I watched two guys on the far shore having an animated conversation. The tram whizzed by on the nearby Veldstraat. I love the ring of its bell. Folks filled the street.

I was a smiley type of guy. All was well. Why not mosey over to one of my favourite pubs – Café de Loge – for a thrilling Belgian beer? Why not indeed? I raised my bod from the chair and headed off down a marvelous curving street full of buildings that are 200-300 years old. I felt LIGHT!

Wait a minute – a little too light. I reached behind for the backpack strap … and it was not to be found. I uttered a well-known expletive and whirled around. Passport, visa, originals of essential documents – O my God, please may they be there! Around one corner, now two. The third one would give me a view of those blue chairs. I had put my backpack on the ground beside the rightmost one.

The corner of the last building, and then revealed was my backpack, sitting on top of the chair. O my God again! Somebody moved it. As my legs sped up my feet, and I was only metres away, there stood a young man. I pointed to my chest. He nodded … and smiled.

“I hoped you’d come back.” Me too. “I didn’t look inside. You’re very lucky.” Agreed.

We talked for a few minutes, after I had ripped open the pack and found everything intact. He was a nice guy, a really nice guy.

Thank you, whoever is watching over me in life. (Sigh) I am blessed.