I like walking into my favourite coffee shops and saying silly things to the staff. Today Panos Langemunt, Izy Coffee and Jaggers were my victims.
Which way is left?
Since the person was facing me, she or he would do this:
No, that’s right!
The human would then correct me, showing me the true right way:
No, no … that’s left!
The responses I received ranged from wide smiles to tilted heads and “Huh?” faces. And therein lies my goal … to have people interact with me, to play the game.
***
Of course there are other pointing possibilities. Maybe tomorrow I’ll present this one in Izy:
But the ultimate expression of arms and hands has to be this:
Stephen King draws me into his novels … his characters, his twists of plot. And also his style of writing. I usually follow his example when I create these blog posts.
King “encourages writers to be lean and precise in their word choices. This means carefully considering every adjective and ensuring it adds value to the sentence, rather than simply being used to embellish … Instead of relying on adjectives, King encourages writers to find more vivid and impactful nouns and verbs to create a more compelling and engaging reading experience.”
“King also cautions against using multiple adjectives in succession, as they can often become clunky and weaken the sentence. He advises focusing on the most impactful adjective and omitting unnecessary ones.”
And then there’s Stephen’s distaste for adverbs. They can modify (and supposedly enhance) verbs or adjectives. He would say “She jumped!” rather than “She jumped powerfully!” His famous quote: The road to hell is paved with adverbs. “King’s advice is rooted in the belief that effective writing relies on strong verbs and nouns that convey meaning directly, rather than relying on adverbs to modify them.”
I have a special distaste for adverbs that are supposed to give additional meaning to an adjective: “The sunset was stunningly gorgeous.” And even more distaste for adverbs that diminish the intensity of an adjective. Here’s my personal list of revulsion:
Fifteen minutes ago I sat down on “my” black couch in Izy Coffee, wondering what I’ll write about today.
Words entered my head: The Star of David. What mystery. The human mind fascinates me, especially mine.
I love geometry. The simple beauty of a horizontal line, and a vertical one. As for the “meaning” of a line, this human being can create anything I want.
So here, for your enjoyment, is The Star of David …
Usually I love curving lines, and there’s none of that here. But I also love the straightness of equilateral triangles, the hexagon in the middle, and all those obtuse angles along the edges.
Speaking of which, why that word “obtuse” for angles that are greater than 90° and less than 180°? The dictionary says “annoyingly insensitive” but it seems unfair to apply that to an innocent angle.
Anyway, back to The Star of David. It’s a sacred symbol for the Jewish people. And that’s the end of my analysis. I just think it’s a cool shape. Plus it found its way into my brain.
I don’t have any blood family left. And I have family.
Last night twelve of us came together at the Wok Dynasty restaurant in Lochristi, Belgium. The sources of this family for me are Lydia Dutrieue and Jo Nachtergaele, two of the four Belgian folks I met on a hiking trail beside the Canadian Rockies in 2017. Sadly Jo died in 2022.
Friendships spread from Lydia and Jo to their daughter Lore and their son Baziel. Both of them visited me in Canada – Baziel in 2019, Lore in 2022. And to Lore’s boyfriend Florian.
And then there’s Marie-paule: Lydia’s mother, and her friend Chris. Luc: Lydia’s boyfriend. Frans: Lydia’s brother, plus his partner Els and his daughter Elise. And Willem, a friend to many.
The family of us sat at a big round table in Wok Dynasty. Everyone could see everyone. During the evening, I kept changing seats so I could have 1-1 conversations with each person. And I did.
I found this story on the Internet … author unknown. Thank you, dear anonymous one.
Two sentences stand out for me:
“You have a gift”
“You don’t have to be like everyone else”
In our moments of despair, each of us needs someone to say something
***
Eight-year-old Anthony Hopkins sat alone at his desk in 1946, the muffled laughter of his classmates buzzing around him. He wasn’t part of their world, a fact he was painfully aware of. At Cowbridge Grammar School in South Wales, Anthony was an outsider, a boy who struggled to fit in. His classmates found joy in games and jokes, but Anthony’s mind wandered elsewhere, consumed by a persistent sense of detachment. Even his teachers labelled him as “slow”, a judgment that hung over him like a cloud, further isolating him from the group.
An incident from his school years vividly illustrates his solitude. During a break, while others played in the yard, Anthony chose to sit alone on a cold bench, clutching a sketchpad. He drew intricate shapes, creating imaginary worlds far removed from the chaos around him. That day, a teacher noticed his work. “You have a gift,” she said, handing back his drawing of a castle perched atop a jagged cliff. For Anthony, those words were rare, one of the few instances where he felt seen.
The piano became another refuge. By the age of nine, Anthony had discovered the dusty old piano in the school’s music room. While other boys gathered in cliques, Anthony would slip away, pressing the keys tentatively at first, then more confidently as he taught himself to play simple melodies. Music became his language, a way to express emotions he couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t long before his parents noticed his growing passion and scraped together what little they could to buy him a secondhand piano. In the evenings, after school, Anthony would lose himself in the music, finding solace in the melodies he created.
His isolation wasn’t just social, it was emotional and intellectual. “I felt like an alien,” Hopkins would later recall. At school, he struggled with dyslexia, a condition that went undiagnosed at the time, leaving him frustrated and misunderstood. His inability to keep up academically only deepened his sense of inadequacy, and he would retreat further into his creative world, sketching and playing music for hours on end.
By the age of twelve, his artistic pursuits began to take shape as more than just hobbies. His sketches grew more detailed, his piano playing more sophisticated. Yetthe loneliness persisted. He watched from the sidelines as his peers bonded effortlessly, their lives seemingly filled with connections he couldn’t grasp. But instead of succumbing to despair, Anthony turned inward, channelling his feelings into his art. The solitary hours he spent with his sketchpad or at the piano honed his ability to observe, absorb and express a skill set that would become invaluable in his future career as an actor.
Anthony’s mother Muriel played a pivotal role during this time. Sensing his struggle, she often reassured him. “You don’t have to be like everyone else,” she would say. “Being different is not a weakness. It’s a strength.” Her unwavering belief in his potential gave him the courage to embrace his individuality, even when it set him apart from everyone else.
As Hopkins transitioned into his teenage years, his world began to change subtly. The creative outlets he once used to escape loneliness became his anchors. His love for the piano and art evolved into a deeper understanding of himself. He began to see his outsider status not as a curse but as a gift, a perspective that allowed him to observe human nature in ways his peers could not.
This profound observation of life, born from years of solitude, would later infuse his acting with extraordinary depth. Hopkins’ ability to portray complex, layered characters can be traced back to these formative years when his loneliness forced him to see the world differently. Anthony Hopkins’ early struggles with loneliness and alienation weren’t merely hurdles to overcome. They were the crucible in which his creativity and empathy were forged. In isolation, he found clarity. In being an outsider, he discovered the power of introspection. His journey from the lonely boy with a sketchpad to one of the greatest actors of all time is a poignant reminder that sometimes our greatest struggles are also our greatest teachers.
It started with a dancing waiter. I walked into Jagger’s yesterday for breakfast and there was Franky, one of the owners, shaking a leg … and every other possible body part.
I didn’t think. I just danced. Gay abandon! “Breakthrough dancing!” Thoroughly out of my mind. And we laughed.
I love techno (electronic dance music) … or so I’ve told myself. In the summer of 2023, I went to a two-day techno festival in Brussels. I wore out my body and soared my soul. The festival didn’t happen last year and I didn’t go searching for a replacement. A couple of four-day hospital stays must have convinced me that I was old and stationary.
But yesterday! “What’s this stuff about being old, Franky?”
I retreated to Izy Coffee and caressed my phone. “Find me a techno festival for this summer.” And it did. Welcome to the Dour Festival near Saint-Ghislain, Belgium – July 16-20.
Who, me?
Yes, you!
Going for five days would be outrageous > Let’s do it!
Dancing for five days would be suicidal > Let’s do it!
Being alive for the rest of my life would be a blessing > Let’s do it!
Here’s my accommodation:
Why not?
***
There’s one little detail that’s been blocking a total explosion of ecstasy. Neither my Canadian MasterCard nor my Beobank debit card will allow me to pay for the whole shebang. I spent two-and-a-half phone hours trying to get the job done. And the result was not produced.
1. MasterCard in Canada has introduced a new security measure. For large purchases, they send a pincode to a Canadian cell number. I no longer have one. Solution: Get a Belgian MasterCard.
2. My Beobank debit card is out-of-date. I can’t use it to buy things online. Solution: Beobank is mailing me an updated card.
This is a good question to ask. I like doing it. I started this morning in Izy Coffee. The barista said “I don’t know.” A customer I like talking to said “It’s too early in the morning.”
On to breakfast at The Cobbler. My server said “I don’t know.” The chef shrugged her shoulders.
Where are the people with answers?
(I thought)
I was sad. I wanted conversations. Real ones.
I returned to the companionship of my food: small croissants with blueberry jam, two tiny chocolate buns, a jar of fruit, orange juice, a latté – all the ingredients for a lovely day … except human contact.
Two tables to my left sat a fellow, apparently of East Indian origin. He was thoroughly wrapped up in his phone so I decided not to approach him. But I was tempted.
Minutes later I yielded to temptation. “Excuse me, sir, what is the meaning of life?” > “To love.” (Accompanied by a smile as wide as the world)
As so Deepak Rai and I embarked on a conversation of the Spirit. He’s an orthopedic surgeon, here in Gent for a few days to learn a new technique for knee surgery. Rai (pronounced “eye”) reflected on the difference he’s made with his patients, and the difference I’ve no doubt made with my students. I talked about singing, and the joy it brings me.
Rai introduced me to a fellow surgeon, and to another physician. They answered my question too!
Yesterday I had the opportunity of a lifetime to experience something that had never come my way before. It was just after the dinner break of our Evolutionary Collective Core retreat on Zoom.
My chicken, rice and peanut sauce meal was not doing well in my stomach and some of it was lingering in my esophagus.
And there I am, one of 67 video tiles on my screen (and everyone else’s). Vomit approaching.
No! Not in front of all these people.
When I’m in these meetings, my face usually feels pretty fluid. If someone says something funny, I laugh. If I agree with a comment, I’ll nod or say something to the speaker (which of course no one can hear, since I’m muted).
Not yesterday after the break. My face was stone. I wonder if anyone noticed. Probably not.
As the upchuck came closer, I turned off my video and texted the meeting host about the possibility of the moment. Then I turned the video back on.
I was teetering on an edge, and I chose to stay in the meeting, stay visible. That makes me happy.
Shortly thereafter, we were put in groups of three to discuss something. One of the principles in the EC is to stay close to whatever is emerging in the moment, and express that to the person(s) you’re practicing with. So I did that. And my companions held me.
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