Last night I came home early from Ghent to go to the dentist, but soon found out I had forgotten my laptop’s charger. Not having a computer not being an option, I found myself having to go back right after a middle-aged woman had drilled holes in my skull. Curses.
It was fun though. I had music, the New Yorker Fiction Podcast and that little thing that makes everything fun. When arriving in Ghent, I lit up another one and started rereading On The Road, the rhythm of Kerouacs language being far more striking than I had noticed before. I read a chapter and left the room that has now become home more than any place I’ve lived before. I almost forgot to bring my charger.
Back in Brussels, I didn’t feel like going home immediately and sat down where I had just an hour before, again with tobacco and paper. A young african was sitting under a street light and singing and playing guitar and I listened and watched and fumbled up my joint, my brains hazy from the last two. I was in an extra-ordinary mood and the man played with the strings clanging metallically and his voice in that beautiful African French. He didn’t have a hat or his guitar cover out for money. He was just making this jazzy, bluesy calm wave of music from this dark corner of Brussels. It was amazing.
Finally coming home, I had steamed salmon with reheated broccoli, mashed potatoes and hollandaise sauce and went upstairs to watch the first episode of David Attenborough’s Frozen Planet. I slept like a log.
