UPDATE:  I got it wrong!  Luc just texted me to say that this painting was created by a Canadian woman – not René Magritte.  That’s right.  We talked about two painters.  I’m laughing.  I won’t change the title … just for fun.

This afternoon I was sitting on the terrace of the t’Kanon café in Ghent with my friends Lydia and Luc, letting both the sun and the conversation enter me.

My body was tired from a workout on the elliptical at the gym.  I was still feeling the emotional effects from my esophagus procedure.  And battles with my internet service provider to get good TV reception were wearing me out.

Part of me wanted to be alone in the silence of my room but the larger me had friends to celebrate life with.  Here they were, right before my eyes!  Not to be missed.

Either Luc or Lydia mentioned René Magritte.  I hadn’t heard of him.  Then Lydia showed me one of his paintings on her phone:

From Google:

“René Magritte was a Belgian surrealist artist known for his depictions of familiar objects in unfamiliar, unexpected contexts, which often provoked questions about the nature and boundaries of reality and representation.”

Indeed.

My eyes opened.  My fatigue was gone.  René was talking to me.  A man who died in 1967 was reaching across the years.

Everybody is dancing.  The rhythms of living were demanding that the folks move … and groove.  The couple in the middle are given lots of space to show their stuff.  The rest of the dancers are happy to yield centre stage.

This is fast dancing.  It looks like they’re jiving.  The faces contorted, the eyes wide, the sweat pouring.  Everything exploding at once.

I could live this way.  I could rise above snakes in my throat, blurry television images, and the ache in my knees as I stretch.  I don’t like any of those things  but who said they have to define me?  Not I!

***

Thank you, René … wherever you are

You came to visit at a perfect time, just like Lydia and Luc

I say I will do X

I don’t do X

(Sigh)

***

I love playing piano.  I bought a keyboard months ago.  Rarely do I sit down and tickle the ivories.

Something needs to be done.

The conditions are perfect for playing.  Many sounds are available with the touch of a few buttons: grand piano, church organ, strings … even a harpsichord.

The piano sits in front of a window looking out over my back terrace.  The river is nearby.  Even though I can’t see the water, the gulls love the route.  In the distance are slate rooves.  People live under them!

What will have me return to playing?  It’s simple … I’ll promise you that I will.  You won’t like it if I break my word.

So …

Today I will sit at the keyboard for an hour – and play it!  I’ll choose a sound that I like and figure out how to input it.  I’ll take one of the songs that I’m relearning (Did She Mention My Name?) and work at playing it in the key of C, which is the easiest for me – no black keys.

After all this happens, I’ll return to my phone and tell you all about it.  I promise.

It’s 10:44 am.

***

It’s 3:25 pm.

I did it!  An hour plus of figuring out the keyboard manual and actually playing.  The manual has been sitting on my dresser for a long time.  I’ve looked through the pages before and sagged in the face of all the details.

Today I realized something: English is only one of eight languages in the book.  Could its mere thickness have been an unconscious barrier deterring me from exploring its mysteries?

In any event, today was the day.  I figured out how to listen to different sounds, and I probably heard fifty of them while playing an F chord.  And I found two favourites: “ConcertGrand+EP” and “Deep Strings”.  The first has a rich, layered piano sound and the second includes the tones of my beloved cello.

I knitted my brow in concentration as the manual coached me about “Favorites”:

1.  Select the Scene you want to register

2.  Press the FAVORITE [BANK] button to make the indicator button light

3.  Press a [0]-[9] button to select the registration-destination bank

4.  Long-press the FAVORITE [ON] button to make the [0]-[9] buttons blink

5.  While continuing to hold down the FAVORITE [ON] button, press the [0]-[9] button in which you want to register the selected scene

I did it again! I can figure out words.

It turns out that what my fingers remembered was the key of F, not C … three major chords and three minor ones.  One black key along for the ride.

I started the melody of Did She Mention My Name? and felt into what the left hand should be doing in harmony.  So far I can’t read piano music.  It’s always been my ear that’s done the job.

Lots of right notes … and lots of wrong ones.  Chords that worked with the melody and ones that didn’t.  “Keep exploring, Bruce!”

“Oh my God – Lightfoot’s song is coming out of my fingers!  What a good boy am I!”

Then what came were the notes of All Through the Night – a lullaby.  And I was being lulled.

***

I’m happy

Music filled my bedroom

And off into the skies over Ghent

The Vuelta a España is a 21-day road cycling race in Spain … 3153 kilometres (1959 miles). It starts on Saturday, and I’m ready with my TV remote!

This year seven of the stages cross or end on high mountain passes.

Stage 17 on September 13 finishes atop the feared Alto de l’Angliru. It’s 12.5 kilometres (7.8 miles) of climbing, with a total gain in altitude of 1266 metres (4,154 feet). The average gradient is 10.1%, with the maximum slope 24%!

Let those numbers sink in. How can human beings do what these 176 riders are about to?

To help you, here’s a photo of one of the steepest sections of the Angliru:

And just for fun, here’s one more:

Riding a bike is no longer part of my life. I’ve made my peace with that. But I have the soul of a cyclist. I will watch the pumping legs on TV. I will see the mouths sucking air on the climbs, the sweat pouring off the foreheads.

And I will celebrate giving everything you’ve got

In your passion of choice

Nine days ago I was sitting innocently on my couch when my throat started constricting. Saliva kept building. I swallowed a lot. Many glasses of water later, I fell asleep.

Eight days ago, my throat tightened again. After a silly debate inside my head about whether this was an “emergency”, I walked to the AZ Sint-Lucas Hospital. A referral to the Gastroenterology department. A second visit to Emergency that morning yielded a bunch of tests and a new medication.

My appointment with Gastroenterology was yesterday afternoon. Google Maps wasn’t working right and I stumbled around towards the main entrance of the hospital. Magically I got there on time.

I couldn’t figure out the registration instructions at the kiosk but a receptionist was right there to translate.

Now the waiting room. Now shaking hands with Dr. Cesmeli … a nice guy. Lots of questions, my best answers. And then:

“I’ll be sending a camera down your esophagus. It will be uncomfortable but it will only last three minutes.”

I don’t do well with pain. I imagine you don’t either. I swallowed … in my throat and in my heart.

The photo is accurate. Lying on my left side, something tied around my mouth to keep it open. The nurse sprayed an anaesthetic into my throat. The numbing was fast.

As I fretted about the future of my life, I saw what the doctor was holding. It was a black, flexible tube with a clear section at the tip. A camera. I’m probably exaggerating here but it looked to be a centimetre in diameter. “Oh no!” bubbled up in my brain.

“I should be stronger. I should be stronger.” Except I’m not. Recent experiences of not breathing easily created terror in my soon-to-be-entered throat.

In went the snake …

“Swallow,” said the doctor.

Down deeper …

“Breathe slowly,” said the nurse.

Panic felt I. And then slowing my breath …

I could feel something turning inside, and how tight things were down there. It felt like the tube was approaching my heart.

“Breathe,” I said to my soul …

Finally an impossibly long three minutes was over. The snake retreated into the open air.

I slumped. I felt the anaethetic filling my throat.

“Don’t worry. The numbness will be gone in twenty minutes. Come to my office after you’re feeling better.”

***

Okay, Bruce. Thousands of humans have experienced what you went through. They probably all felt the jolt when the tube started down. Many were scared, just like you. You’re a part of this very human family, not some anomaly.

Dr. Cesmeli said that there’s a constriction in my lower esophagus, probably associated with acid reflux. The medication will relieve that … some or a lot. There’s also a bit of fungus down there, which should disappear with the meds.

If the tightness, saliva growing, and constant swallowing return, he will do a small cut in my esophagus and widen the tissues.

“Thank you, doctor.”

“You’re welcome.”

We smiled and shook hands.

***

Am I a wimp?

About some things, yes

And I love me still

I look around and I see symbols everywhere. There’s a table on my back terrace. The horizontal lines are strong. What they mean is up to me.

As the sun continued its journey, I saw something else … my life. Here I am at the very beginning, emerging from my mother in Toronto, Canada:

It’s all bright and beautiful, and strange. “Where am I? What are all these things moving around me? And actually … what is an ‘I’?” It’s all ahead – this life of mine. Wonders and sorrows await.

***

Woh! How did this happen so fast? I’m a teenager, with a face full of acne, hiding away in my room with a wooden spoon as a microphone, lip-syncing as Buddy Holly belts out “Peggy Sue”. Playing cello in the school orchestra is propping up my damaged self-esteem.

I have no idea about the sun shining on a table.

***

I’m 35. Having recently failed as a real estate agent, I’m about to become … a waiter, at a fancy restaurant. At my high school reunion I’m asked if I own the place. “No, I’m a waiter.”

The acne is gone. The wobbling self-esteem lingers.

The sun continues to move over the wood.

***

I’m 74 … as in right now. My body is slower, weaker and fatter. My spirit is wide open – embracing the world. A smile comes easily. I write, empathize, connect, love. I want to sing and play my cello and speak Dutch. I live in Heaven, Belgium … also known as Ghent.

What’s with that sliver of light? Surely the table is wider than this. Or maybe not …

I’ll keep you informed.

***

And then there’s this:

I don’t know what it is

Someday I will find out

A long time ago, I sang a song called “Hello In There”, written by John Prine.  John was such a poet … and felt into the lives of the people he met.  Here’s an example:

You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello”

So if you’re walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes
Please don’t just pass ’em by and stare
As if you didn’t care, say “Hello in there, hello”

This is one of the sixty songs that I will memorize or re-memorize … and then sing to people.

***

I was walking home this afternoon after an elliptical session at the gym. Across from my apartment building, I glanced left down the side street. And there sat Lieven. I waved. I could have turned towards my doorway but my feet took me to the chair beside him.

We smiled and then began talking in English, which for him is a challenge. I was happy to be there. It didn’t matter what we talked about.

Turns out our conversation ranged from unpasteurized milk to the great coffee at the nearby Patershol community centre to my workout to Lieven’s son working at a gym. Nothing special but we were together, giving each other the gift of our attention.

We said goodbye. Only back in the apartment did I think of John’s song. I went to my guest bedroom window and took a picture of Lieven, still sitting there.

It was good to be with him

Yes, I need to sing.  Yes, I’m being drawn to memorize many songs.  I want to spill the words out into the world.  I want people to receive the messages that the songwriters intended.  I want the listeners to see their lives in the music.

Here are five of those songs:

1.  Paint the Sky with Stars

May I be the artist and invite others to do the same.  May I be wistful and give that sweetness to the hearers of the song.

Suddenly before my eyes
Hues of indigo arise
With them how my spirit sighs
Paint the sky with stars

Only night will ever know
Why the heavens never show
All the dreams there are to know
Paint the sky with stars

2.  How Can I Keep From Singing?

A song that fleshes out my need to share melody and words.  “Here’s who I am, folks.  I hope you’ll join me in the music.”

Though the tempest loudly roars
I hear the truth … it liveth
And though the darkness ’round me close
Songs in the night it giveth

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

3.  True Colors

I see you. Not just your personality and your life story. I see your essence, your unique flavour of spirit … and I love you for it.

You with the sad eyes
Don’t be discouraged
Oh … I realize
It’s hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small

But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you
So don’t be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
Like a rainbow

4. Angel

There is a place called heaven on earth, where we are deeply connected to each other. The human beings who hurt us and the human emotions which assail us fade in the presence of such brilliance.

So tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there’s vultures and thieves at your back

The storm keeps on twisting
Keep on building the lies
that you make up for all that you lack

Don’t make no difference
to escape one last time
It’s easier to believe in this sweet madness
Oh, this glorious sadness
that brings me to my knees

In the arms of the angel
fly away from here
from this dark, cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear

5. Remember When The Music

In some cultures, singing is natural. Folks gather in kitchens or in circles on the lawn … to make music. May that be part of my life too.

Remember when the music
Was a glow on the horizon of every newborn day
And as we sang, the sun came up to chase the dark away
And life was good, for we knew we could

Remember when the music
Brought the night across the valley as the day went down
And as we’d hum the melody, we’d be safe inside the sound
And so we’d sleep, we had dreams to keep

***

There is a purity in the voice

As life stories are told

“Okay, Bruce. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” > “I want to sing.”

I sat yesterday and scrolled through my playlists on YouTube Music. I was sensing into songs I want to learn or relearn. Four decades ago, I sang my favourites and accompanied myself on guitar.

I created a new playlist called “Learn”. Right now it holds 61 songs, 7 of which I memorized long ago. I see a path ahead. Study those seven, plus a new one that I worked on a few months ago – “Song For A Winter’s Night”. Eight songs that I will perform on the street (and perhaps from my balcony!)

I will go to Ghent City Hall and get a permit to sing in public. I don’t want money. I want people to listen.

This morning I went to a tiny park beside the Leie River and waited till I was alone. “I’ll start with a classic Gordon Lightfoot love song.”

I stared at the lyrics on my phone and began to sing. I remembered … some of it.

I adjusted the pitch so the lowest note would be comfortable for me. I looked at the words of the five stanzas and remembered patterns that I knew long ago. I found the phrases that had disappeared from my mind and focused on them:

“And when the morning came”

“Is the old roof still leaking”

“And looking at the rain”

My voice wavered. Even though alone, I was nervous. Slowly I increased the volume. I hit the low notes with ease. I was approaching the last phrase (“Did she mention my name?”) in which the pitch of the notes is higher, requiring more air. I gazed across the river and a woman was looking at me as she walked by the white van.

I went self-conscious and my voice trailed away …

Ahh yes … part of the process

I will continue

***

Did She Mention My Name?

It’s so nice to meet an old friend and pass the time of day
And talk about the hometown a million miles away
Is the ice still on the river? Are the old folks still the same?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Did she mention my name just in passing?
And when the morning came, do you remember if she dropped a name or two?
Is the home team still on fire? Do they still win all their games?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Is the landlord still a loser? Do his signs hang in the hall?
Are the young girls still as pretty in the city in the fall?
Does the laughter on their faces still put the sun to shame?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Did she mention my name just in passing?
And when the talk ran high, did the look in her eyes seem far away?
Is the old roof still leaking when the late snow turns to rain?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Did she mention my name just in passing?
And looking at the rain, do you remember if she dropped a name or two?
Won’t you say hello from someone? There‘ll be no need to explain
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Where does this thought come from?  And now another one.  My mind fascinates me.  Is it joined to other minds, ones from the present or from the past?  Or … from the future?

I went to HEMA for breakfast this morning.  It’s a department store and cafeteria in Ghent centrum.  There’s a gorgeous terrace overlooking Korenmarkt.

As I looked up from my croissant, here came two men carrying their trays.  I’d guess they were in their sixties – one black, one white.  Then the explosion in my head:

The black man is less than the white man!

What?!  I’m not prejudiced.  I am kind.  The jolt of my instant thought came from … movies?  My parents?  White culture?

I sat there appalled by what I somehow created.  “Down deep, am I really that way?”  No.

***

Then a mom and her teenaged daughter sat down in front of me.  A middle-aged fellow was approaching their table.  “Of course he’ll join them,” I reasoned.  Except he kept walking – by them and by me.

Inexplicably I felt sad.  I wanted a joining, not a distance.  I wanted smiles, not strangers.  “This makes no sense,” I said to myself, wondering why I was so attached to a certain reality.  And again I muse about the contents of my head.

***

An older fellow walked out of the restaurant, leaned over the railing and lit a cigarette.  I’ve often waved to him.  His job is to collect fifty cents (half a euro) from anyone who wants to use the bathroom.  He sits on his stool outside the male and female doors for maybe eight hours a day.

What is his life like?  What impact does his job have on him?  Does it wear him down?  Or does he see each person who comes his way as needing something, and he provides it for them?  A burden or a service?

***

I expect my mind will continue to spill out its contents for quite some time

I can’t wait to see what’s next

For years I’ve been fascinated with who’s behind all those windows.  Are they looking out and seeing me?  Are they wondering about us passersby? Are there secrets hidden away?

Ghent is full of mysterious windows, ripe to be included in a novel of intrigue.  The shapes are many: circles, semi-circles, ovals, triangles, sweeps of modernity, and of course rectangles.  Even a few teardrops.  Tiny to immense. Eye level to way up high. 

A few windows are open … someone is in there now.

***

Who do you see behind these panes of glass? 

If you move here, you could be the one gazing out at me

Wondering who I am