This is the view from the terrace at the back of my apartment.  For months I’ve said “I want that crane to go away.” Seems like what I want is not so impactful.

I have my days where the crane has become part of the natural landscape, a welcomed piece of the puzzle.  Yesterday was not one of those days.

I vowed to find this crane, to stand beside it and gauge the construction progress being made.  And … calculate when the big long thing would disappear.

So I set off, brimming with confidence that I’d easily locate my “companion”.  “It’s just to the right of that tall smokestack, only a lot closer.”

Out the door, along the Oudburg, a stop at my bench where the Leie curves.  Way in the distance rose the smokestack.  But no crane.  “No matter!” I huffed.  “It’s just to the right of the crane.  It’s not as tall as the stack so it’s hidden behind buildings “

On I trod, following the sweep of the river.  Way to the east beyond, I eventually spotted the crane.  Yes!  I marched on resolutely, proud of my determination to produce the result.  “Look at that crane … that yellow crane.”

Hmm.  Yellow seemed off.  Wasn’t it orange?  Unhappily I didn’t come armed with a terrace photo.

And then I stood under the beast.  Next door was a hole in the ground with a cement foundation.  “That’s the sum total of the work they’ve done for all these months?”

My certainty puddled.

I went on Google Maps and figured out angles: smokestack, church spires, an ornate tower.  “I’m in the wrong place!  I’m too far south.”  So I shifted north, cleverly putting myself on the edge of a park so I’d have a long view in that direction.  “Yes, I know.  The buildings will be father away.  I’ll be able to see the crane above them.”

I walked.  I looked.  I didn’t see.

I started beating my chest, tearing off my clothes, sinking my fingernails into flesh.  (Just kidding)  Actually the angst was purely emotional … or perhaps it was The Dark Night of the Soul. 

“What the hell do these construction people do … dismantle the crane every evening?!”

With my Ghentian orientation skills, I located myself on the Ottogracht – a neighbouring street to the Oudburg.

“My God, I’m nearly home.  I give up.”

And then, leaning over the precipice of despair, I glanced across the street.  Such lovely buildings here – ordinary, lived in, unspectacular.

Peeking above a roof was a little bit of metal angles.  It was … orange.

I hurried down a side street.  It opened onto a little square – the Edward Anseeleplein.  In the corner, a home was clearly inder construction.

I was a four-minute walk from home.

Blond is a queer bar in Ghent, only a five-minute walk from home. The umbrella term is LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer). I’ve passed by many a time, but clearly too early in the day. This time they were open.

I’m here in my new home city to meet people – all sorts of them. I don’t learn much by hanging out only with folks whose life experience is close to mine. I want my eyes opened, to discover brothers and sisters of different sexual orientations, ages, races, cultures and personalities.

When I walked into Blond tonight, there was one guy sitting at the bar and the bartender Djahid. Two young men. That was it.

I read the menu, loving the message that appears in the photo. “We are all called upon to contribute to making everyone feel safe.” Yes.

After a preamble about beer, I asked Djahid if most of his customers were respectful of differences. He said yes, with notable exceptions. Still, Blond is a safe haven for LGBTQ human beings.

Djahid told me that when I walked in, he sensed that I was a good person, but he’s learned from bitter experience to stay attentive. Sometimes he’s been surprised by a sudden racial slur or a joke about two women being together.

Once he felt comfortable with me, Djahid said that he likes dressing up feminine for queer parties but tenses up when it’s time to walk home. Too much of his life is about being careful, constantly on the alert for aggressive behaviour. I asked myself what all that looking over your shoulder does to the body.

I was sad that there were no women in the café. I had hoped to talk to one or two about their lives and mine. Next time.

It shouldn’t be any big deal. It should be about celebrating our differences by simply talking. “What’s important to you? Here’s what’s important to me …”

I’ll be back

First of all, I think flying is a good thing.  I don’t know about the physical part but often my heart soars.

But are X, Y and Z necessary for me to ascend?  I say no.  Here are some things I see as extra:

The Himalayas

It’s nice being on a windswept pass in Canada’s Rocky Mountains, or strolling through a violet lavender field in France, or experiencing the sun falling into the sea on the horizon.  But they’re not needed.

A Monastery

I know a few: the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts (USA); Monasterium PoortAckere in Ghent (Belgium); The Peace Pagoda in Grafton, New York (USA).  Holy places … but so is my bedroom.

Silence

Three floors down from my balcony is the terrace of Café Otis.  Often people are out there talking at 2:00 am.  Then there are kids on the schoolyard at recess as I walk by.  I still fall sweetly to sleep and smile across the years as a child shrieks on the swing.

Music

It was cool being in the front row in Toronto as Nicola Benedetti caressed her violin, drawing forth melodies that lifted us all.  Or when Bruce Springsteen rocks the stadium with Badlands.  But life is full of vibrations that can enter and stay … if we open our pores.

Lots of Money

Caribbean cruises, Michelin meals, a Porsche – they sound cool (especially if the car is red!)  But essential for lifting off in life?  No.

Perfect Health

Experiencing my body as strong and flexible and full of oxygen is marvelous. But shortness of breath, straining under a load, or bursitis in the hip need not exclude the spirit.

***

But what do I need to rise?

One thing …

People

I was sitting in a community centre in the Patershol neighbourhood of Ghent this afternoon, enjoying my coffee with Avocat.

A fellow asked if he could sit with me.  And so it began …

Marc lives in Ghent.  He easily moved into English and said that his wife would be arriving later.

Marc is clearly an historian and hearing that I was new to the city he began sharing its secrets.  It was clear that he wanted to express, to contribute, and I knew that I would go with it.

The facts and events came fast and furious – too rapid for me to absorb but that didn’t matter.  I was enjoying being with Marc.  I now remember about barrels of wine, about Belgium being created as a buffer between England, France and Germany, about a  Spanish emperor who dominated the area long ago.

Marc was enjoying me and I was enjoying him.  It was all so fresh and new.

He also talked about the love of his life – Dani.  If I got the facts right, they were a young couple for six years, then married for twenty-two.  Sadly they divorced and for four years explored life without each other.

Both finally realized that they were missing their true life partner.  So they reunited for the next thirty-five years of marriage.  Such a sweet story.

I saw what Marc was talking about when Dani arrived.  Someone made them for each other.  They talked about exploring Alaska and British Columbia, and then Montreal.  I was a Canadian reunion.

Marc and I will go walking in Ghent someday soon.  I will learn more.  And I will have a new friend (two actually).

Ghent joins

The water you see is Napoleon de Pauwvertakking … and way in the background the Leie River. Ghent in springtime, matching the spring in my step.

I seek spots like this. I am pulled to the long view – where the horizon is far, where the future beckons.

It feels like standing back from a painting and feeling the soul of the artist covering the canvas. Details blend into the grandness of it all.

There is a bridge, over which many thousands have walked. Today there are two. I wonder who they are.

And the buildings behind them … what smiling faces of the past chose the red, blue and yellow? “Let’s stand out, shall we?”

Streets on the left and right are drawn to the Leie. Walkers, cyclists and drivers agree. There are reflections to see down below and tiny creatures skimming the surface. All is to be welcomed as the day greens in the sun.

I am paused in such moments, brought to rest from the scurryings of my mind, asked to drink in the majesty of spring. I just sit … sometimes with thought and sometimes with not.

It is complete

All told it was two hours and forty minutes out of my day.  Five reps of financial services companies – four Canadian and one Belgian.  Their responses varied from “I can’t help you” to a fellow who did handsprings of service for 1:45.

What I want to do is sell my shares in a corporation.  I need the money.  Who would have thought that financial transactions between Canada and my new home of Belgium would be so difficult?  Clearly not me.

My brain isn’t the precise, analytical type.  And it’s not particularly adept with finance and computers.  Oh well.  This was the task at hand so I got to it.

I was told that I needed to do this, that and the other thing for the result to be produced.  Then I was informed that the result no longer can be produced because I’ve moved to Belgium.  Or that forms 23F, 18C and X needed to be completed.  And phone us back if you don’t understand some of the questions that require answers.

The last fellow was golden.  I started thinking “This actually can be done.”  He was so patient with my misunderstandings, my slowness of mind.  And determined that together we would jump through the hoops that international transactions placed before us.  At the end I thanked him with all my remaining energy.   Perhaps two weeks from now, the money will be in my account.

I’m sitting here pooped … and proud of me.  I’ve been wading in foreign waters, far from home.  I am humbled by my foibles.  So often in the world of daily tasks, I don’t know what to do.  Happily saviours are willing to step forward.  One of them is named Brian.

We need each other, you and me

I came awake in the wee hours with a song on my lips: Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  My quiet voice, the trustable one, said that I’d write about it today.  I smiled a sleepy smile.

Then the voice elaborated: “You’ll transcibe the first verse and then write a few words about it.  Same with the second …” 

Okay.

Hours later I looked at the lyrics.  Some of the verses moved me, some didn’t.  Did my large mind really want to tie me to a structure?  It’s not what it usually does.

Now in comes the small mind.  I looked at a verse and started focusing.  “How can fit my thoughts about this into the post?”  I started struggling, adjusting, fixing.  Soon one word appeared …

“No.”

***

Now I can breathe again! 

So … let’s look at a few verses of Swing Low Sweet Chariot and see what wants to emerge.

Sometimes I’m up, and sometimes I’m down,
(Coming for to carry me home)
But still my soul feels heavenly bound.
(Coming for to carry me home)

If I sit quietly, I know something: I am home. And it’s not just geography. Something more expansive than Ghent is carrying me. I’m floating in an unknown sublimity that’s larger than the events of the day, than the disappointments and satisfactions.

If I get there before you do,
(Coming for to carry me home)
I’ll cut a hole and pull you through.
(Coming for to carry me home)

If you get there before I do,
(Coming for to carry me home)
Tell all my friends I’m coming too.
(Coming for to carry me home)

As well as the stillness of home, I’m also moving. We’re travelling together, you and me, and the destination lies hidden behind the clouds. We know it’s good.

Maybe your eyes will fully open before mine do. And maybe I’m first. It doesn’t matter. We’re both watching “extra” things drop away. Life is becoming natural, a flow, an adventure to be shared.

***

This is better

I wonder who created feet.  Good job, whoever you are.

These long things are very efficient.  Without them, how would we keep our heavy bodies balanced in the vertical?  And it’s very cool how the left and right alternate to propel us forward.

My interests lie elsewhere however.

The hands are good at clapping but there’s real joy in slamming your ankles together.  The joy of the legs first so wide and then smushed in union.

And sliding!  Heading downhill on one of those wet plastic tubes is a hoot.  Or how about on a varnished hardwood floor, like John Travolta in Staying Alive?

Pirouetting is the best of dance.  Have you ever watched your feet in the spin?  I suppose not … or you’d end up flat on your face.

I wonder if my toes would wrap around vines so I could swing upside down in the jungle.

And then there are those cool folks with no arms who paint their souls with their feet.

Or have you ever thought how difficult skipping would be with no feet?  Surely it’s clear to everyone that skipping is essential for the full flow of happiness.

Finally in this worship of the lower appendages, consider Hollywood’s fifteen pairs of beautiful feet:

1.  Emma Watson

2.  Ariana Grande

3.  Nicki Minaj

4.  Kylie Jenner

5.  Kristen Stewart

6.  Miranda Cosgrove

7.  Katy Perry

8.  Demi Lovato

9.  Emma Roberts

10.  Victoria Justice

11.  Dirk Tanghe

12.  Jennifer Lawrence

13.  Scarlett Johansson

14.  Jennifer Aniston

15.  Ariel Winter

***

Who can resist this mélange of sole and skin and bones and toes?

Not I

Perhaps I don’t need to write.  Just look at the photo.  A woman soaring in her song.  A man pressing the strings of his guitar in sweet runs of notes.  And that lamp!  It welcomes people from the Oudburg to the sanctuary that is the Gregor Samsa bookshop.

Harry owns the shop.  As well as shelves of pages that will stir your soul, he hosts concerts … once or twice a week.

Last night there were about ten of us.  We were privileged to hear the outpourings of Anima Amici.  Paola sings South American songs with a sprinkling of jazz.  Ramsy loves his guitar.  The two of them spent the evening smiling at each other, and at us.

It didn’t matter that the songs were mostly in Spanish.  The beauty was transmitted from performers to audience.  Melodies from Cuba, Colombia, Brazil and Argentina graced our ears.  Maybe even Peru.  And as we absorbed, we got to sip on our wine, beer or apple juice … all under a wooden ceiling with handhewn beams.

Long ago in Toronto, Canada, my wife Jody and I got to hear The Three Tenors in an immense stadium.  We were so far from the stage.  The sounds were exquisite but partway through I realized I’d been watching closeups of the singers on the Jumbotron.  I was watching TV! 

And the good news?  Harry doesn’t have a Jumbotron.  I was just a couple of metres away from Paola and Ramsy.  I saw the shine on their brows, the mouth wide open, the fingers working their magic.

At the break, I asked Paola to translate a few of the lyrics she had sung, some tender moments.  She told me about a love song from the first set: two people, one loves the other, the second does not love back.

“So sad.  Isn’t there a happy song?”  >  “Yes.  We’ll do it in the second set – in English.”

Good.

It’s called Throw It Away:

Throw it away, throw it away
Give your love
Live your life each and every day
And keep your hand wide open
Let the sun shine through 
'Cause you can never lose a thing
If it belongs to you

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=POO-n-NLbss&feature=share

It was wide open in Gregor Samsa last night

Once before in my blogging, I decided to write within a stream of consciousness. I don’t remember what happened. I want to do it again. My fingers will take the lead … and keep going. At the end I’ll correct the spelling but that will be the only adjustment.

Will it all be gobbledygook?  Maybe.  Will there be gems of wisdom embedded in the flurry of words?  Doubtful.  Will there be punctuation?  Probably not.

Okay.  Here goes …

***

I wonder what the world is becoming within me.  Because it’s inside me, this planet , in all its agonies and blessing gs.  I feel it ruminating inside, pretending that it’s countries and races, pretending that it’s something g other than me.

The colours splash – all of tgem- and some that never existed in my mind.  They spread an join, leak into each other  dissolve the petty lines that we create.

It feels onward is he only way to go. Firalward.  Always reaching g towards the other. Notcretreati f from them.

What are you made if. Dear friend?  Who are you in the dark alleys of life and in the briflght sun.  I want to know yoy- tge glow and the warts, the crying and the the ju.pi g up and down.

Something. Is over, dine with, extra … ileaving into tge part.  I wave good ye.  And forward again I wave hello to hatever lurks in the must.  I welcome e it all. I feed on it all. I am nourished.

How many come this wat?  I don’t care.  I just need a few good companions. To look in each other’s eyes and see glory.  Yo seethe fliw of blood and spirit, to be taken up into the river and carried diwnstreM..or perhaps ipstreM.

What if it’s all upside down?  What if I ‘m getting younger, not older..  I. The birth canal, ready for a blasting g out onto the universe?  That would be fine e.

Tomorrow is a white canvas.  Dies any body have a pai t brush?  No it’s okay …  found m own.

***

I don’t know.  That was probably three minutes.  It’ll take longer than that to fix all the typos.  Hmm … maybe I won’t fix the typos.  Take that, reality!

See you tomorrow