Brecht Plays The Beatles

Well it’s today, and I was all set to talk about my sweet experience at the Gregor Samsa Bookshop last night.  But first to get my hair cut.

Julia in Canada has been my hairstylist for over twenty years but she’s there and I’m here.  Anouk is finishing up with another client and another woman just washed my hair.

As my hair sung, she asked me if I’d like a drink.  Huh?  In a hairstyling place?  “If I had my choice, I’d pick a beer!” > “Sure.”  Sure?  And here came a Duvel.  Belgium offers me daily wonders.

Back to last night: Harry’s bookshop on the Oudburg welcomed Brecht, and Brecht welcomed us with soulful tunes on his electric guitar from later Beatles albums – Revolver, Rubber Soul and Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. We the fifteen lovers of John and Paul and George and Ringo sunk into our chairs.

The books on their shelves trembled a bit as Brecht smiled … “while [his] guitar gently weeps”. He lost himself in Eleanor Rigby, Penny Lane and In My Life. I had asked Brecht beforehand if I could sing along and he sweetly said no. As his music unwound, I was happy to just drink in his melodies and harmonies. Full and complete.

The space is magical. Just two tiny lights illuminating Brecht’s guitar and the ancient wooden ceiling. The soft rub of my upholstered chair. Setting my wine glass just so beside an author long dead. Many thousands of pages nearby, filled with the best that a human being had to give.

The seating was the opposite of what you see in the photo. Brecht sat at the back of the room. I imagined folks walking by on the cobblestones behind me peering through the window at the marriage of fiction and music.

Harry’s is a place to gather, to feel cozy, to let the tune go deep inside and become you. A sip here … a sigh there. It is enough.

Pippi Longstocking

My friend Marieke told me about Pippi. I vaguely remembered the name and hadn’t seen the movie. Now I have.

What a marvel in the world is this young one!

“A nine-year-old redhead with pigtails that stick out sideways” And a spirit to match. Listen to her sing:

I am Pippi Longstocking
With a hope and a hey and a hope shah-nah
I am Pippi Longstocking
Watch out, here I come!

I don’t need to give any more Bruce comments. Here are the moments I loved:

***

She dives into the water to retrieve a bag of gold. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it.”

She’s friends with a mouse, a horse (Old Man) and a monkey (Mr. Nelson). And they’re always talking. At Christmas she gets them presents: cheese, a long scarf and bananas.

Tommy and Annika, her human friends, come by at 4:00 pm, just as Pippi is waking up. “I danced the night through.”

“We don’t have to grow up if we don’t want to.”

“Nothing’s impossible. Remember that.”

(A poster) “Do you suffer from freckles?” > “No, I don’t suffer from freckles. The spots on my face feel pretty nice.”

(A man throwing darts at a target) “Watch how I do it. The most important thing is … Watch and learn.” (Then Pippi throws six bullseyes)

(Speaking to two men) “You should really remember me very well.”

“I wish I could fly like birds fly.”

(Tommy) “Pippi, this is your birthday. You’re supposed to get presents, not give them.”

“It’s the opposite of what others do.”

Pippi gets up from the table by crawling over it.

Pippi dances and sings around the campfire.

She kisses Old Man goodnight.

“I made up a search game. Most people pass things by without even noticing them. But if you can keep your eyes open, you can find the craziest things.”

(Talking to Mr. Nelson) “Let’s pretend you’re a grand duke.”

(Dressed up as an old lady, hidden from her friends by a veil) “All children should blow their noses frequently to keep their passages clear and get enough oxygen.”

(After the reveal) “That old lady could learn something from us.”

(Tommy) “Pippi! You can’t take him on. He’s a very strong man.” > “Oh, so what? I’m a strong child.”

(Finding a bunny and a deer in the woods) “Don’t leave. We won’t hurt you.”

“I never turn down anyone in trouble.”

(The teacher) “A girl leaves with ten coins in her purse. When she returns, she only has two. How many coins did she spend?” > “Why would you want to know that, teacher? After all, the money she had was all her own, wasn’t it? So she could spend as she pleased.”

(The teacher, in drawing class, after Pippi gets up and draws on a wall) “Why don’t you draw on a drawing pad like everyone else?” > “Do you think I could fit a big horse like this on a tiny piece of paper?”

***

Enough said

Laundry

Sheets and towels today after Baziel left for his new place.  The first time on his own – not needing to adjust to his family, or recently to me.

There are three of us immersed in our phones as the machines spin.  Her middle-aged thumbs move fast.  His elderly finger swipes up.

A young man in a ball cap rolls in, exchanging a brief smile with the woman.  He starts shoving his wet stuff into a bag while she returns to her tapping.  Two minutes later he’s gone.

It’s such an ordinary time … silence accompanied by a soft whirring.  The three of us are alone in our worlds. 

Even though I’m doing a blog post, I want contact.  My first few visits it was easy.  “Which wash setting is best?”  “Which driers give you the most heat?”  Now it’s more of a challenge.  I don’t have any questions.

A newcomer!  A fellow wearing a wool hat.  In Canada, we call that a toque.  (Wait a minute, I’m not in Canada anymore.)  I decide to say “Hi” to him if he walks by.  He’s putting in his coins.

Here comes the old guy, full bag in hand.  I smile.  He smiles.  I say “Hi”.  He says “Dag”.

Now the hatted guy is making an brisk exit.  I turn my eyes towards his.  He looks the other way.

I see an opportunity.  I amble to the woman.  Once I get that she speaks English, I say “That man just said ‘Dag’ to me.  What does that mean?”  She was happy to give me the answer: “It means ‘Hello’ or ‘Good Day’.” Smiling broke out both ways. Contact.

Here’s another old fellow, heading to a drier with his clothes. The one euro coin won’t drop for him. Happily I know that drier. “You need to go to the change machine and get two 50-cent pieces. They’ll work.” This newbie Bruce gets to help an even newer newbie. Sweet.

A young woman, perhaps from India, is leaning into the washer next to mine. I smile and say hello. She has an astonished look on her face and utters a sound which I don’t understand. She turns away quickly. Oh well.

The original tapping woman is running napkins and tablecloths through a pressing machine. We used to call it a “mangle” in homage to crushed fingers. I ask her if this is for a restaurant. She smiles and says yes: “Valentjn”, just around the corner. “I should go.” “Yes, you’re always welcome.”

I share the drier space with a guy about 30. I say hello. He looks at me like I’m from another planet and returns to his shirts. Oh well again.

Now I’m home with bedding and towels that smell sweet. And the lovely scent of laundromat connection lingers. The moments of distance have faded away.

“What Happened?”

It was a long time ago.  Many images had blasted my eyes over the years but then there was this one.  I don’t remember if it was girl/woman or boy/man.  A poster hung on a wall somewhere – a glowing child next to a dull adult.  There were two words at the bottom: “What Happened?”

A few years back I blogged about this.  My small mind says not to repeat it in 2023.  But why do small when you can do huge?  I’m a different person now, living in a different country, having new experiences.  So here goes …

Drink in two female human beings.  Forget that one is a photo and one a sculpture, that one is recent and one ancient.  Just look at the eyes … and the mouths.

What you see may not be what I see. (And isn’t that what makes the world go ’round?) Anyway, for me there is joy and resignation, presence and absence, immersion and putting a toe in the water.

I don’t have an answer to “Why?” I’m sure we can all come up with educated guesses but the contrast between these two invites something far deeper than the reasonable mind.

Let’s look at two more citizens of our planet:

One face is level with the world. The other gazes a little down, perhaps the weight of life pressing hard.

One is so open, welcoming whomever comes by. The other is shielded and in pain.

As human beings, they both face “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” but the responses are widely apart.

And a final pair for you:

In April last year I visited the Norman Rockwell Museum in Massachusetts, USA. He was a marvelous painter who caught the essence of people. As I ambled from room to room, only a few paintings grabbed me. This girl certainly did. How come breakfast can be such joy for some of us?

The woman is accompanied by her child but there is no connection. Mom is elsewhere. The young one deserves more.

…

And so …

I am happy

I am sad

Julie’s House

Here’s a skill-testing question for you:

Under what circumstances would I write a positive post about a restaurant that I walked into an hour ago and walked out of ten minutes later?

Julie’s House opened at 9:00 am.  People were already flooding in – people with reservations.  Soon Julie’s would be full with folks who had reserved ahead.  Except for a counter … and I didn’t want to sit there.

The cool thing is that two women employees did their darndest to find a solution for me, but full is full.  I smiled at both of them as I went in search of another source of breakfast.

A few days ago, I sat in this lovely spot in Julie’s, sipping my latté and watching Peter cut a cake into slices.  My croissant had just come out of the oven and the raspberry (strawberry?) jam sunk into the hidden places.  An earlier smile.

There is the brick arch, sunlight flooding in, families walking by on the street.  All was well.  And Peter made me feel welcome, as did a female employee whose name I didn’t learn.

I lingered, soaking in the song “Martha” by Tom Waits, feeling the slow … feeling at home.

I looked down at my napkin.  I decided to follow instructions:

The sign on Julie’s window said it all: You are welcome here.  Please join us.

I will … again and again

Kids

Children have usually been a big part of my adult life … but not now. I miss them.

I taught blind and low vision children. I got to know a lot of fully sighted kids as well. My favourite moments in school were when the child and I were in conversation. It didn’t matter what the topic was, as long as there was connection.

I’m sure you know when you and another human being are connected. It’s mysterious – beyond words, beyond eye contact – but you know it’s real.

Last night I went to the Celebration of Life for my dear friend Wim. First there was a Mass (in Flemish). The words escaped me but I could feel the love in the room. Three young kids read something. I smiled to see them play a part.

Afterwards, Lydia, Baziel, Lore and I were invited to join the family for drinks and snacks. I had a couple of cool 1-1 conversations in English. Often though, I was on the outside of a small group discussion in Flemish.

I decided to go find the kids. I walked into the TV room and there they were – five of them stretched out on a huge ottoman watching some show and a few others gathered around cell phones. Someone at the party had told me that children in Belgium start learning English at age 12, and all of these folks looked younger than that.

Some of the viewers noticed me sitting off to the side. Only one girl connected with the eyes. She came over to sit with me for a minute.

So … ten young speakers of Flemish and one adult speaker of English. Still worth a smile. Clearly “the conversation” was not going to happen. So I just sat there, happy to be in their presence. It was enough.

…

A task awaits in my Belgian future:

How to make an impact on young people in my new home

I’ll find a way

Baziel

He is my friend, a mere 56 years younger.  I met his mom five years ago on a hiking trail in the Canadian Rockies, and today I feel part of the family.

In October Baziel’s dad Jo died.  How does a teenager deal with such a tragedy?  Same with Lore who is 20.

One way that Baziel copes is with basketball.  Here he’s number 11, shielding the ball and driving for the basket.  It was a few nights ago.  I cheered “Baziel!” a lot.  He certainly has offensive skills but even better was his willingness to pass the ball to a teammate who was more open than him.

If you enlarge player 7 on the opposition, you’ll see that he plays for “Geografica”.  It was Geography vs. Medicine in the University of Gent league.  Medicine squeaked out a win.

Baziel entered medical school in September.  He’s determined to put in the time and energy to be an excellent physician … and so far he’s doing both.  My friend expects to be fully qualified by the time he’s 30.

Here’s a picture of Baziel exercising his brain cells in my apartment.  Can you see the focus?

Last night Baziel took me out to eat burgers at Uncle Babe’s – a favourite of mine only steps from home. We laughed. He paid. Then he was off for an evening with his friends.

Baziel Nachtergaele is already leading a full life. Who knows what heights he’ll scale in the decades to come? I dearly hope to see some marvelous landscapes with him.

Ordinary and Sublime

Being hungry is ordinary.  It happens every day to all of us.  Going to McDonalds for supper is also ordinary.  Hopefully it doesn’t happen every day for any of us!

We wash the dishes, brush our teeth, ride the bus or drive the car, talk to our family members.  I see a danger that our whole life be swallowed up by the “usual”.  The routines and the schedules take over … and we don’t notice the brightness of life anymore.

No thanks.

I was in a McDonalds mood a few nights ago.  I got my food and sat at a counter, looking out a window.  And this is what I saw:

My burger and fries were animated by the glow of St. Nicholas Church. I was sipping far more than Diet Coke. The air shook. My view transformed from 2D to 3D.

What are the textures that may be revealed right now? Who am I connected to as I gaze out at the life on the street? When will I wake up to the beauty that is always here? To the majesty of the moment?

I choose “Now”

Frailty

It’s one of my unfavourite words … and sometimes I see it in the mirror.

Here’s another one: “careful”.  Also yucky but increasingly necessary.

(Sigh)

But on we go.  Yesterday I did laundry in a building only fifty metres from my home.  I took my shirts out of the drier while they were some wet so the wrinkles would fall out.  As my underwear and jeans continued their drying journey, I grabbed my ten shirts and ten hangers and headed home.

There are fifty-two steps from the street to my apartment.  No elevator.  Clutching my moist shirts to my breast, I started climbing.  Partway up something jolted in my left hip.  It’s called bursitis, and it thought that yesterday was a fine time to say hello.

A second climb to the heights involved an IKEA bag in my right hand while the left clung to the railing and hauled the body upwards.  In the uncareful department, I was still putting only one foot on each riser.

Hours later I hobbled down the stairs and towards a dinner restaurant.  I chose a route sweetly but unconsciously, one that involved climbing twenty steps towards the end.  Imagine more hauling up with left hand, still stepping “normally”, but this time publicly.

As I ate, I thought of my decision to rent an apartment way up high.  I knew that someday I wouldn’t be able to do those stairs … but I thought that moment would be years away – not TODAY!

There were two exit doors from the restaurant. One involved climbing two steps. It was very clear that I’d have to put two feet on each riser to deal with the pain. I felt the angst of not wanting people to see my plight. I chose the other exit.

The whole other discussion is that I haven’t stretched for months. At the end of June, I sold my home in Belmont, Canada and shipped my belongings across the ocean. It felt “convenient” to place my yoga mat in one of those boxes. Convenient and dumb. No yoga mat, no stretching. “Oh well,” said my deluded mind.

Today I start again to extend my body parts in various directions … now smiling at my foibles.

And all will be well.

Wim

Wim was a family man.  And he still is.  His spirit shines beyond death.  As much as he revered his wife Marie-Anne and his children and his grandchildren, Wim’s sense of “family” was bigger than these sixteen human beings.  It included all who came his way.

I was one of those lucky ones.

You’d never forget a Wim hug.  He encircled me and held me close.  He laughed big.  When I heard he was an engineer and built bridges, I thought of my favourite one in Ghent: the Kongostraat.  I tried to convince him that he built that one.  But he shyly shook his head.

Lydia had us over for dinner a couple of months ago.  She presented an hors d’oeuvre that I didn’t know.  It was sitting on a tiny puff pastry (or so I thought!).  Turns out it was a shell, and I broke it apart with my teeth.  I was laughed at … with love.  Later, as plates were passed around for the main course, Wim noticed there was a chip out of my plate.  “Still hungry, Bruce?”  Totally Wim.

I don’t know when Wim gave this framed calligraphy to Lydia, Jo, Lore and Baziel. Perhaps he knew he was dying and wanted these words to touch their hearts. It sits in “Wim’s place” in the living room. It enters all who come close and are willing to read.

I decided to choose to focus my attention on the “beautiful” rather than the “ugly”

I decided to choose to listen to beautiful music rather than confuse my ears with anxiety-provoking news

I decided to fill my mind and my heart with gratitude for all the great opportunities that life brings me

It’s all just a matter of choice

Christophe André

Christophe and Wim. Perhaps they’re sharing a bottle of wine right now.

Salut