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

I love curves … but straightness also has a place in my heart.  Take lines, for instance:

What does a vertical line mean?

How about a horizontal one?

Your meaning may be X while mine is Y.  All good.  I see the up-and-down as integrity, keeping my word, treating people well.  And the left-and-right as equality, inclusion and acting “on the level”.

Lines are everywhere, and so are my opportunities to reflect on the symbols they are for me.  May I spend more time thinking big and less thinking small.  I can live broadly and kindly, with big fat brushstrokes full of paint … or I can obsess with timid little lines of fear.

And then there’s architecture.  The Flanders region of Belgium is famous for its stepped gables.  From Google: “A gable is the triangular portion of a wall at the end of a building with a pitched roof.”

Here is the wonder of local gables.  Voilà …

This restaurant is about fifty metres from my apartment building.  Such beauty.  And steps to … where?

For you to respond

And me

I wonder if I’m on drugs.  No, I don’t think so.

On Thursday I had cataract surgery on my second eye.  So the right started the process that the left had a head start on.

What would be a good word to describe my head?  “Vacant” will do.  My distance vision is wayward.  I often stumble on the cobblestones and have trouble estimating the distance between me and objects, such as people.

After the surgery, my near vision was useless, so I bought cool orange-framed reading glasses at a drug store.  So I can see this screen.

The visual bottom line is that I will have excellent vision, with glasses for near and another for far, by August 15.  That’ll do nicely.

I woke up on Friday morning with my world feeling like an abstract painting … everything soft and blended.  I had a decision to make: go to Salvatore’s in the evening and sing … or stay home and lick my imagined wounds.

The ticking of the hours wasn’t bringing me closer to an answer.  I could feel passivity creeping over me … a yearning for the couch or bed.  But there was also a tiny spark: I want to sing!

What an excellent dilemma to be in.  Small or big.  Slumbering or alive.  Weak or brave.

I chose

Yes, I was worried about forgetting the words or singing out of tune as I sat talking in Salvatore’s before the eight or nine performances.  But I also smiled.  I’m here!  I didn’t give in to mediocrity.

I sang well … actually a song about singing.  I looked into the eyes of the fifteen souls in attendance as the words flowed from my mouth.  Many of them got the beauty of lyrics such as these:

When tyrants tremble sick with fear
And hear their death knell ringing
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?

Afterwards I had a lovely conversation with a young woman.  We talked of life, about our shared sadness of often not being seen as the divine beings we are.

She was both spiritually and physically beautiful.  I had the strangest thought as we spoke – one I didn’t share with her:

She’s like The Elephant Man.  Many people only see the body … not the soul inside

***

Now it’s Sunday.  I’m glad I’m writing again

There is much to express