Here are two American singer-songwriters:  Kris Kristofferson and John Denver.

I love their music.  They’re both poets of the melody.  Sadly John died in a plane crash but they’re both alive in my heart.

A few days ago, I wrote six Canadian friends whom I’d dropped away from.  Amongst my updates was this:

During the winter and spring I sang at about six open mic sessions but that’s also been absent in the summer.  So … back on the horse!  The next open mic is on Friday, September 6 – that’s two weeks and two days.  I promise you that I’ll sing Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” that evening.

Promises, promises.  I’ve loved Kris’ song for decades.  He speaks of things I don’t know (being a heavy drug user) and things I do (being lonely).  Over the years I absorbed some of the lyrics but the process of learning the song is far from done.

Yesterday I tackled the task and soon realized that producing the result within two weeks is “a bridge too far”.  Sure, I usually live from “Go for it!” but I don’t have the energy or focus to perform this ballad at the Salvatore’s open mic.  I know this to be true.

So I choose to switch gears to Mr. Denver.  I had worked on putting two of John’s songs together – “Spring” and “Summer” –  and singing them on July 5 but I was in hospital then with a blood infection.  Too bad, because the seasonal timing would have been perfect.

September 6 is still technically summer but my heart is turning toward fall.  No matter.  They’re two great merged songs and the lyrics are in the back of my head somewhere.  I will bring them forward over the next two weeks, stand before the audience and sing …

Silently the morning mist is lying on the water
Captive moonlight waiting for the dawn
Softly like a baby’s breath, a breeze begins to whisper
The sun is coming.  Quick!  You must be gone

Smiling like a superstar, the morning comes in singing
The promise of another sunny day
And all the flowers open up to gather in the sunshine
I do believe that summer’s here to stay

This will be fine

When my body isn’t being nice, I get so scared.  Guess I have a really low “toughness” rating when it comes to physical stuff.  “Please, no pain … or at least not much.”

I don’t expect that I’m all that different from you.  Perhaps we share fragility and despair and terror when the body hurts.

Last night I ate pizza, and shortly thereafter I had trouble swallowing.  With endless burping.  And a scared mind.  All that continued in bed … until I eventually fell asleep.

I’ve been down this road before.  The lowlight was a gastroenterologist feeding a one-metre “snake” down my throat so he could look at my stomach.  “Gosh, that hurt.”  (Said he with a thoroughly wimpy voice)  The bottom line is I’m terrified to go through that again.

I see my family doctor tomorrow.  If he orders the snake procedure, so be it.  Finding out what’s wrong trumps avoiding physical pain.

Part of me is saying “You should have written about something else.”  Most of me disagrees.  My stomach is here and now.  I have no interest in “there and then”.

The musical “Hair” opened in 1968 on Broadway in New York City.  In 1979 the film version came out.

The photo shows Cheryl Barnes singing “Easy To Be Hard” in the movie.  It’s my favourite “Hair” song.  Here are some of the words:

How can people be so heartless?
How can people be so cruel?
Easy to be hard
Easy to be cold

How can people have no feelings?
How can they ignore their friends?
Easy to be proud
Easy to say no

Especially people who care about strangers
Who care about evil and social injustice
Do you only care about the bleeding crowd?
How about a needy friend?
I need a friend

The words hurt me way back then … and they hurt me today.  I woke up this morning with Canadian names on my lips, friends whom I said goodbye to when I crossed the ocean eighteen months ago.

I didn’t intend to be cruel, but I was.  I responded to their e-mails but perhaps not once did I initiate contact.  “I’m busy with my new life” was what I seemed to be saying.  And I was busy – still am – with all it’s taken to become a Belgian resident.  But that shouldn’t be the end of the story.

I woke up today sad and embarrassed.  “Especially people who care about strangers” sounds like me.  I haven’t been a good friend since leaving Canada’s shores.

I wrote all six of them this morning … telling the truth and seeking a renewal of our connection.  So far one of them has replied, so pleased to hear from me.  I told her that I intend to visit Eastern Canada next Spring.  I will visit.  We will hug.

May the other five human beings also be in my face-to-face future.  They all deserve my kindness.  No one should be left out.

Vellore Eruthukattu posted these photos on Facebook two days ago.  They’re both of Oostende, a Belgian city on the English Channel.

First in 1899:

And the same scene today:

The eyes behold truth

The mind doesn’t have to compose endless words about that truth

One thing I’ve discovered about Facebook: if I use a vertical photo in a post, it won’t show up on the title page.  And since I like using pics to entice people to actually read my stuff, here’s a horizontal shot that doesn’t tell you anything about my subject today:

And now a vertical photo that does:

I was working out like a hero this morning, surrounded by other heroes doing their fitness thing.  As I gazed at the sweating mass of humanity, one word came to me: BLACK.  “They’re all wearing black!”  A slight exaggeration but the trend was clear.

Then there’s me, sporting my yellow “Why not?” t-shirt.  I love wearing this shirt.  It’s inspired by a conversation I had with my friend Lore Nachtergaele two years ago.

I’ve worn goofy t-shirts for decades.  In Canada, people often came up to me to comment on the message.  In Belgium … hardly ever. 

There are lots of people roaming around Gent centrum today.  As I started my ten-minute walk home, I launched into experiment mode:

1.  Will anyone passing by say something about my shirt?

2.  Are there any other folks wearing clothes with silly messages?

***

And the survey says …

1.  No.  As far as I can tell, not even one person (of the 200 or so on the street) even glanced at my chest.

2.  Well, maybe.  One guy had a painting of a beach with a few small words that I couldn’t read.  That was it.  Most shirt-wearers displayed messageless solid colours.  Lots of black again.  The few words I saw were either companies (“Puma”) or sports teams (“Bulls 23”).  For the uninitiated, that one refers to Michael Jordan of the Chicago Bulls basketball team.

***

To “Why not?” let me add “Who cares?”  None of this seems relevant to anything.  But in the spirit of “So what?” I’ll continue walking … and wearing … and writing.

I was sitting in Jaggers this morning, enjoying breakfast.  I was on their terrace, secluded by an umbrella and plants.

Past the bush in front of me, I saw a purse drop to the ground out in the square.  I leaned over to see an old woman had fallen.  A couple was already approaching her.  They helped her up and picked up her purse.  Twenty seconds later a server from a neighbouring restaurant was there too, offering her help.

I was still sitting.

I see myself as a kind person but I had taken no action to assist.  My reasonable mind told me there were already people attending to the woman but I still managed to bring into the moment the life-lingering thought “I’m bad.”

I do feel that I’m evolving spiritually, that there’s ever more love gushing from me.  I guess, though, that I’m like the stock market – gains and losses, with hopefully a slowly climbing value.

Half an hour ago, as I contemplated what to write today, the words “Find something else” bubbled up.  Avoid what was immediately true.  Don’t be that vulnerable.

Silly me.

And so I wrote … about my sadness and embarrassment.  Because that’s what’s real.

***

And in answer to my question …

Me

Emile was a French novelist who wrote in the late 1800’s.  He’s been dead for over 100 years but he continues to reach human beings.

What remains after we’re gone?  I think our Spirit still floats in the air.  And then there are our words …

I’ve just spent half-an-hour searching for things that Emile Zola said.  I couldn’t stop.  There were words after words that touched me.  Now I’ve accumulated seventeen quotes!  Who among you will read all that?  On the other hand, perhaps a few will find one thought among seventeen that gives you pause.

Let’s find out …

We are like books.  Most people see only our cover.  The minority read only the introduction.  Many people believe the critics.  Few will know our content.

If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.

Respectable people … What bastards!

The thought is a deed.  Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.

I would rather die of passion than of boredom.

Oh, the fools, like a lot of good little schoolboys, scared to death of anything they’ve been taught is wrong!

If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.

Sometimes she was seized with hallucinations and thought she was buried in some vault together with a lot of puppet-like corpses which nodded their heads and moved their legs and arms when you pulled the strings.

While the storm was erupting, she stayed, staring at it, watching the shafts of lightning, like someone who could see serious things, far away in the future in these sudden flashes of light.

Living in musty shadows and dismal, oppressive silence, Thérèse could see her whole life stretching out before her totally void, bringing night after night the same cold bed and morning after morning the same empty day.

She wanted to live, and live fully, and to give life, she who loved life! What was the good of existing if you couldn’t give yourself?

They have so smothered me in their middle-class refinement that I don’t know how there can be any blood left in my veins.  I lowered my eyes, put on a dismal, silly expression, just like them.  I was just as dead-and-alive as they were.

The whole of Paris was lit up.  The tiny dancing flames had bespangled the sea of darkness from end to end of the horizon, and now, like millions of stars, they burned with a steady light in the serene summer night.  There was no breath of wind to make them flicker as they hung there in space.  They made the unseen city seem as vast as a firmament, reaching out into infinity.

He wept for truth which was dead, for heaven which was void.  Beyond the marble walls and gleaming jewelled altars, the huge plaster Christ had no longer a single drop of blood in its veins.

The truth is on the march and nothing will stop it.

A horribly bitter taste came into his mouth: the futility of everything, the eternal pain of existence.

There Albine lay, panting, exhausted by love, her hands clutched closer and closer to her heart, breathing her last.  She parted her lips, seeking the kiss which should obliterate her, and then the hyacinths and tuberoses exhaled their incense, wrapping her in a final sigh, so profound that it drowned the chorus of roses, and in this culminating gasp of blossom, Albine was dead.

I’m a fan of Dutch cyclist Puck Pieterse.  She’s your basic nice person … and she loves life.  Puck is famous for her YouTube videos, where she straps a camera to her chest and takes us for a ride.

For decades, my version of watching sports on TV has been to glom on to my favourite player and cheer like crazy.  I did that in the Olympics and I’m doing it in the Tour de France Femmes – with Puck. 

Of course there are heroic exploits in any sport, no matter the runner, tennis player, rider …  The moments that take my breath away: such as a world record run in the 800 metres by Keely Hodgkinson, a winning lob over the opponent’s head by Ons Jabeur, landing just inside the baseline.  And Puck outsprinting Demi Vollering by a third of a wheel in the Tour’s fourth stage.

But I’m still stuck in hero worship, and it’s not a bad thing.

Yesterday was the fifth stage.  Demi and Puck came down in a crash with 6 k to go.  Lots of blood.  Neither finished high in the day’s standings.  It was what happened after the finish line that moved me.

Demi was warming down on her stationary bike, in pain.  Puck came over and gave her a real hug.  Fierce competitors … and sisters.

Before the podium ceremony, Puck also hugged stage winner Blanka Vas, accompanied by a huge smile.  Blanka and Demi ride for a different team than Puck.  No matter.  There is love.

Sure, I love watching Puck giving her all on the climbs.  Even more, I love watching her humanity.  Including her humour:

Now I have some nice extra red things to add to my polka dot jersey

[This jersey belongs to the woman who has done the best on the climbs]

***

Puck inspires me

And so it follows …

May we all inspire each other

A small fiery particle thrown off from a fire

A small flash of light produced by a sudden disruptive electrical discharge through the air

A sense of liveliness and excitement

Any of those meanings will do nicely.

See the little dot of light in each eye?  We all have them.  Check out your friends and neighbours.  They all have the sudden glow that reaches out from their face to the world.

Or at least it’s designed to reach.  Some of us keep the dot to ourselves.  And that’s a waste of good light.

***

Our eyes are meant to be noticed

We are meant to sparkle

We are meant to join

And many of us do

Yesterday was talk.  Today I’m really here … in the Gent Sint-Pieters train station.

After lingering over my mandarins and yogurt in the main lobby, feeling the art on the walls, here I sit in Starbucks.  More old paintings, some coloured drawings and three domed mosaic ceilings.  Voilà:

I love the curves above.  It feels like they’re blessing me.

***

At the far end of the room stands this clock.  Minute by minute the hand progresses.

And to translate the Latin:

It escapes … irretrievable time

Ahh yes.  On we go, and go and go.  My cappuccino feels eternal and universal.  The sipping may be through anyone’s mouth – past, present … or future.

***

The lobby showed me the world.  Straight up in the middle of the ceiling, there’s a swirl of steam and speed.  Trains have always taken people to their destinations.  There’s a lift under our wings as we go out and about.

The image is mesmerizing … and way up high.

***

Soon after entering the station, I sought my home – the city of Gent.  And it found me:

The churches of centrum, the gabled roofs, the curving hats of Rabot – the painter saw them long ago.  I see them now.  And may young kids grow into adults who still look up … at the walls of Gent Sint-Pieters.

There is much to see