"Why do you want to go now? Why not wait two weeks? I can come with you and make arrangements!?!" asked Mo, in exasperation
Sure Mo! I thought cynically about his motives. To lose his driver on the Taxi rank - and to be made to realize his easy promises.
"I can arrange gigs in Brussels - hire a hall, sell tickets there!"

Ten hastily recorded songs in a Harlow new town studio for a special ' £50 for the day' deal. It was an OK recording... I guess. OK for the ego. OK to play to your friends once... or twice.
Ah yes... we'd done our first gig... after 3 or 4 months rehearsing in my marital apartment kitchen.
Harlow Folk Club. There must have been as many as twelve people there... probably all itching to show their musical mettle in between the main act.
Ah yes... Essex BBC Radio advertised the gig... and even read out all the blurb I'd sent them. Fame at last!

"Why do you want to go now?" asked Ziggy, " Why not wait until we've saved enough money?"
Sure Ziggy! I thought cynically about his motives. It's one thing to sit in a bedroom and TALK about making money... it's another thing to go out and LIVE exclusively on your music.

There is no true outlet for songwriters in England. Folk Clubs are elitist or cliquey... consisting of traditionalists who think music is only music if it sounds like 'Tiddly Tum Te Ta'; bearded bank managers who think music is only music if it is bellowed out with a beer in one hand and a finger of the other hand perched pretentiously in an ear... or religious devotees of a specialized style of Blues, Country or Folk.
Pubs are for ' Knocking on Heaven's door', ' No woman, no cry' and musicians with full P.A. systems.
There is no effective outlet for the songwriter - one which reaches a broad spectrum of tastes. To truly find out what people like and want.

"I want to go now!" I firmly stated, " Alone, if I have to!"
"Oh no, I'll come with you," said Ziggy, "But I still think we'd be better waiting."

"So when are you going to go?" asked my wife.
"When I said I'll go!" I answered, " Don't worry, I'll be gone very soon!"

With my daughter Rachel, Ziggy and I as passengers, my wife drove to the port of Felixstowe... and I left behind my home town and my marital home.
My daughter was three months over three. She is almost six now. I have seen her for five short days in all this time.
It is a matter of grief and guilt.
Back then, it was for ' only about a month'. A week in Bruges; a week in Antwerp; a couple of weeks in Brussels...where Mo would drive over to meet us.
Laying plans has been a futile gesture more often than not since then... as Fate drove me onto ever convoluting paths; paths that disappear behind me... leaving me to face the paths that confront me by moving forward.

"Hey Ziggy! Head over to the terminal," I suggested, " I want to say goodbye to my wife and Rachel."
For Rachel this was just another trip... but she read something in the waves of energy about her.
I hugged her. My pain at our parting probably hard to conceal.
Momma came to pick her up and strap her into the safety seat in the car.
Rachel wailed... her face a sorrowful explosion as realization dawned that Daddy was going away.
Her arms reached out in a futile, pleading gesture... hoping they would return me to her. My heart leapt to her as tears rolled soul driven from my eyes
With grief constricting my throat I waved assuringly... as the car receded from the Port car park; from me.... from my life....
I had my guitar, a limited repertoire of songs, my duo partner.... I would survive or starve on my music.
I would not turn back this coming month.

I had £75 in all the world - more than half of that would go on the fare to Ostend. My busking experience was virtually non-existent. Light hearted attempts in Cambridge, Harlow and Brixham ( Devon). Only Brixham had ever come good. Enough for Ziggy and I to buy a meal apiece.
Now the 'Great Pretender' stood facing the Felixstowe terminal. Within two days that £75 would be gone. Only funds gained from music would be left to sustain me.
Assuming funds COULD be gained from my music.

"My marriage has finished. We've separated," I finally informed Ziggy as we sat on the 12 hour overnight ferry.
"I guessed something like that," said Ziggy, sympathetically," Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I wanted to keep it quiet! I didn't want any fuss!"

There are some people who could be either dramatically successful through means of their personality - or quiescent, timid, scared to face the world and life.
Ziggy fits this extremity of disparate potential. He is the kind of person that would be in huge demand as a guest on chat shows because of his wit and thoughtful incisiveness and his ability to play to the audience.But the world never found a reason to notice him.
I was not ready as a performer - but Ziggy was.
The right moves and he could make it.

From being a studiously shy teenager with an excellent dry humour he had ' become himself' with the Punk movement - playing in bands that 'almost' or 'never would'.
But the imagery of Punk appealed to him. In his very assimilation of its culture he would privately take the piss out of the whole thing. Drinking opened up his personality. His shyness fled with the alcohol. Ziggy became the toast of the bars with his wit and humour.
Ziggy liked this attention - so he drank more.. and more...trying to reach that point where once more people would toast his personality.
All they did was slowly slink away as the trendy wit became that 'obnoxious drunk'. The private part of him that humoured at his imagery had drowned beneath a sea of alcohol. Drink had made him believe that being obnoxious and outspoken, without that subtle self humour, should be enough. The private part, which had been drowned, resurrected itself as self pity and, slowly, it stripped away in stages Ziggy's sense of self worth. So, naturally, he drank to drown this private part of him once more.
His drinking was serious.
His body bloated out as his liver became increasingly damaged and over-worked. Vomiting became a common thing.
One day, outside his local bar, some guy imprinted his own personal vendetta upon Ziggy's body with fists and feet.

Then a doctor put it straight,"Your liver is damaged almost beyond repair through your drinking. The choice is simple... give up drinking NOW, or continue drinking and be dead within six months."
By this time I was his only friend and there was contempt creeping into my pity. Talking to him was like talking to yourself. He never remembered anything - even if you had just spoken to him. It was reminiscent of my grandmother's descent into senility.
Ziggy had gone from being a 'rebel without a cause' to being a 'brain without a clue'.

The doctor's diagnosis was dramatic in effect. Ziggy stopped drinking from that point - and for two years he existed as a fairly mind numb recluse at his parents' house - watching television, videos or playing guitar. But his sense of rhythm and co-ordination had been severely impaired.. along with his memory.
It took those two years for his recovery of body and mind.
But then he took to weight lifting and, naturally, to becoming a 'born again' Christian. Something rankles within me when I am confronted by these types of Christian zealots.... but it's undeniable that they develop pleasant personalities and open up their energy wavelengths in a way that is potent. More potent, perhaps, than they may realize.... so, as long as you divert the subject matter away from being 'saved', I've usually found I enjoy their company.
In most cases zealots either stumble back into the abyss from which they had emerged ... or have their fill of being 'saved' on an active level and revert, gradually, to their true, natural personality. This way they are able to rebuild their life and even their ambitions.Ziggy moved on to a long relationship with a female Christian he had met during the latter stages of his zealotry - only to see her 'stolen' from him by one his best mates. But during the relationship itself Ziggy and his girlfriend had rented a place in Harlow and he had held down a job as a hairdresser in Epping. He had made steps from dysfunctional to functional.

Musically, Ziggy's tastes tended toward Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and Steve Earle. All of theses influences were evident in Ziggy's stage act.
By contrast, my musical tastes are ever changing, but rarely lost. But my style of stage act was more Country/Folk. People likened me to Leonard Cohen, but in 1994 I was more heavily influenced by Christy Moore and Al Stewart. So, imagine Iggy Pop forming a duo with Leonard Cohen. Welcome to BRIM and the way the duo would have headed, given time and opportunity. Strangely, despite our disparate influences, we complimented each other.

Arrival in Bruges
On a cool, grey morning in Ostend we boarded a bus to Bruges... passing the unpretentious, unspectacular Belgian villages and countryside that lined the way.
Bruges is not the place for two green, wide-eyed wannabe buskers. Accommodation and food took the last of my money and playing the streets gained almost no response. We felt pretty foolish and embarrassed. Ziggy, depressed at our failure, merely elected to sleep early while I scouted out bars. They were empty or one step removed from the same...
"Come back in a month!" one barman said, "the students will be out and about then."
For the tourist, Bruges is a lovely city with its canals, parks and historic buildings. For the green busker, it is an unfriendly place...full of expensive shops, rich people and a 'fuck you' mentality. I'm sure it is not as bad as the last sentence has painted it, but the last sentence represents my only busking experience in Bruges...
and the impression I emerged with has stuck.

At the Hotel I browsed through tourist brochures and came across one promoting Antwerp. It boasted of extensive street entertainment and 2,000 bars and restaurants. It converted me.
Ziggy complained about the futility of our predicament once I returned to the Hotel room, " This whole thing is crazy! Let's go back!"

I felt guilty about dragging Ziggy, albeit on his emotional and artistic loyalty, to a foreign country with no plans or assured revenue as a safe guard......through no reason other than my private hieradd and inner desolation over the collapse of my life.
Both of my parents had died within the last 18 months. My mother died in January... just over 4 months before my arrival in Bruges. I had a brother and a sister left of true family in Britain.... and Rachel.
Now I was separated from the singlemost joy of my life.... Rachel...
I had lost my means of income when my taxi, a Ford Sierra, became too old to qualify for another year of work. My credit had been shot to pieces by the financial landslide of recession,debt and marriage. Most of the debt had been cleared, but the cost was ultimately my ability to work at my chosen job. Driving Mo's taxi had effectively cut my earnings in half. Any other job for aa unskilled 40 year old would be as poorly paid.
I could exist in unfulfilling limbo.... or I could try for that rainbow.
I wanted the rainbow.
But the other key factor was that I could not accept the idea of Rachel living anywhere other than where I live. So I had to leave my home area the moment I left my marital home. It's not as extreme as gassing yourself in a car or jumping off a bridge, but it is possibly a moderate alignment - but one which opens the possibility of new horizons rather than closing all.

"Let's go Back!" pleaded Ziggy.
The desolation inside of me had stripped away my will to live. I cared little of what happened to me anymore.
"Go back," I answered, "Go back, Ziggy."
"But what of you?"
"I will continue on to Antwerp,".........to eventually starve if that's the way it turns out.
"But you have no money! How will you travel?"
"I'll hitch!"...................................I'll walk...I'll crawl....I'll die....

Ziggy, mentally refusing to accept this venture as anything other than a holiday, had brought modest financial reserves.
Enough to return to England.... or to take us by train to Antwerp.
He had to choose between the security of England or the insecurity of Antwerp, with no guarantee of the means to return home.
He chose Antwerp........ and my mind dropped into deeper despair to be pulling a friend along to witness my burial somewhere in the wilderness of Europe.

While pitching we had seen a musician turn up and play in front of the Cathedral Square terraces. We watched him play and then take out a bowl, or hat. With this he went amongst the terrace dwellers collecting money from those who wished to offer such for his performance. The idea of doing this was beyond our cultural experience, but it seemed to be the key to survival here in Europe. I balked at the idea of such an in your face pretence. But Ziggy, buoyed by desperation, boldly faced the terrace and gave it all the energy he could muster. He looked heroic. I felt shame that I was too nervous to attempt the experiment. Ziggy completed his show and took his hat around. Maybe around £6 or £7. It gave us something to survive with- and it gave me a reminder of the need to cast aside my nervousness..... stand up and be counted. But nervousness haunted both Ziggy and I on that first day. We did not attempt a terrace after that. In essence, we had to find out the rules - or have a bar owner's permission to play. We had to feel we had the right to play to an audience, even if that right arrived from passive tolerance. Meanwhile other concerns floated through us.... where to stay? Who to ask?

"Can we play?"
The evening saw us asking in the Swingcafe about gigs. Green, wide-eyed boys! But they suggested the Musiekdoos, where ' you can get up and play on a stage.'

English wide-eyed boys to the Doos, " Can we play?"
"Sure," said Marc the barman, " Just say when."

A stage and two microphones. Up we clambered and out we sallied with four or five songs.
Good audience response.
"That was very good!" flattered Marc, " What did you want to drink?"

"Ah well," I remarked to Ziggy, " A good experience, even if it is only worth a free drink."

So where could we earn money? We sat down with our drink and wondered whether we should play again. Ziggy checked with Marc about the best options for earning money. He came back agitated..... "He asked me why I didn't take the hat round! He reckons we would have earnt £12, or thereabouts!"

Ah shit!

Other musicians had started arriving and we found we had to sit through three or four acts before we could get back on stage. By that time the audience had diminished considerably, alongside their money. We got only £3.  

Pommie
But in between all this... amongst the various musicians.... my instinctive energy awareness informed me that an English guy with a confident, loud-talking voice.... and approachable demeanour.... would be the best source for usable information. His name was Pommie and he gave the impression of someone hardened to survival here in Europe, yet willing to inflate his ego with a display of his knowledge.
Knowledge is gold dust in any sphere of life and is ultimately guarded beyond certain points. Pommie was the kind of guy who knew very much indeed and revealed little of it. But what he did reveal was of immense value to two green horn buskers out of England.
For many buskers in places like Antwerp life is all about earning enough money to afford to get drunk or stoned. Some can even be drunk, stoned and STILL play passably well. Pommie is of this breed.
But, at this juncture, he had returned from England and his parents, where he had dried himself out awhile. Hence he had a fairly smart haircut... and
unglazed eyes. Through Pommie, I was able to glean valuable hints about working the places in Europe. For the nonce he gave directions for a Hostel, which was only £7 a night each. Although it was too late for this particular night.
His musician friends were Tony Lynch, Craig Ward, Nesbit, Milligan and Manchester Dave. I didn't come to know most of these until much later.
But this was the basis of the clique.
Incidentally, Tony Lynch revealed to me at a later date how threatened they felt by BRIM.... "I thought the last thing we needed was another duo."

'This is what I am now!'
Antwerp boasts that there are bars open 24 hours a day. Our efforts to find someone to put us up came to naught. By two the Doos was shut... and we meandered across the road to the extensive free car park that lined the River Schelde.
Someone had suggested we sleep there.... but.... looking the place over.... it wasn't inviting... and the fear we might fall asleep and have our guitars stolen further discouraged us.
We were dog-tired, but we went to a Schelde side cafe... bought a coffee.... and generally huddled in as close a half doze as we could manage. But even this place closed around six... so we headed, for some reason, to the railway station. I think I believed the Hostel was around there. I assumed it WAS a Youth Hostel we had to find. Studying a map I had acquired I directed us, with full baggage and guitars, along THIS road and then THAT road.... with Ziggy complaining every inch of the way.
"This is crazy! Have you gone mad? What are we doing here? We're just like tramps!"

We had a little under £16. Enough to cover the Hostel charge, if Pommie was correct. It became increasingly hard to walk each faceless street. I KNEW it was a long walk to the Hostel, but I tried to lift Ziggy's spirits by saying it wasn't too long a way.
Exhaustion as we approached the Stadt Park made us look at the park benches as bed.
It was daylight.
We sat down on a bench and, in the distance, I saw a lady actively running away from the sight of us.
'This is what I have become. Something to flee. I can't return to any semblance of what I was. THIS is what I am now! A derelict stranger who inspires fear in the squeamish of the White Sheep world.'

For Ziggy, I felt powerful remorse. He didn't deserve this! A route march into privation and probable homeless starvation. Nothing had gone well since setting foot in Belgium.
I had no great belief it was likely to.
I really needed to get Ziggy back to England... but I couldn't even afford cigarettes! 

Homelessness in a strange, new land
To experience homelessness for the first time.... and in a strange, new land... is a frightening experience. My will to go on had fled as surely as the squeamish lady. But beyond will there is default behaviour. Once accepting a path my way seems to be to go on... and on... to the bitter end. If there's one more bridge, then I'll just sigh with despair for awhile, get up and walk that 'one more bridge. If there's one more bridge after that... then I'll sigh with added despair, but I'll get up and......................

To the motorway and there, over one more bridge, was the Hostel. But the bridge was way to our left and Youth Hostels stuck on the edge of town usually like to add to the fun by making you walk the longest possible route to it. Inside... and images of rest and a shower dominated, but...
"Ah! You're not members? It will be £8.40 each."                 approximate currency change value
By a minuscule amount we were short of the charge.

"You stay here, Ziggy. I'll head into town and try to get the rest."
Such a long walk. But we discovered there were buses going to the centre. Ziggy decided to come with me back to the centre, but this time we travelled by bus. It was just as well. This was the wrong Hostel.

We learned about playing terraces.... and while Ziggy did the cleaning job and rested up in the afternoon, usually jamming with Heyme and Finn, I placed myself in the queue for the main Groen Platz terrace. Usually I would have it played around mid-day, then I'd head out later in the afternoon to play it again.
My guitar and voice were probably woefully quiet. My range and repertoire of songs similarly woeful.... probably not greatly attuned to the tastes of the people on the terraces. My self penned songs were chiefly intended for thinking, respectably quiet Folk Club audiences. But my repertoire of Irish songs tended to carry me through. I learnt how to memorize songs. I had been too lazy to memorize songs back in England ... or didn't trust, or believe, in my competence to do it.
But I could.... and I did.... fast!
I trawled through songbooks I had brought with me and sought to learn a new song every couple of days - mostly Irish songs, because there was a definite empathy for anything Irish amongst the Flemish. I swiftly gathered that few of my self-penned songs were equipped to deal with the real world and majority tastes. But I had confidence this would be remedied.

"Do you want a drink?"
After a few days I woke up to the point of being in Belgium. Brim was an entertaining duo geared to play gigs. We had a tape with us.
"We must look for gigs," I told Ziggy.
So we traipsed around the Irish bars with our tape in tow. At the 'Elephant's Graveyard' Manchester Dave was behind the bar. The punters in the bar liked the tape. But Dave didn't think the Elephant were taking on gigs right now. He gave names of other bars to aid our quest.
I went to Paul Sach's bar . Paul is Irish, plays a saxophone and runs a traditional 'tiddley tee dum' bar way out in 'the woods' of the ring road.
"Sorry, I can't afford to pay for gigs at the moment. Did you want a drink?"
He listened to the tape. I think he liked it.

'Mollys' put the tape on and the barman asked, "Do you want a drink?"
'Sectarian'... my gloomy, haunting song of a tragic incident in Northern Ireland seeped out through the speakers as a lady in the bar offered us a gig at 'Het Zand' in two weeks.
"At last, the first step! A good gig and we'll be on our way.What we can do, Ziggy, is play this gig and then use the money to head to Brussels and arrange to meet Mo there."

Alcoholic decline of Ziggy
But Ziggy had been steadily taking to the sup.
His attention to how he dressed, how he looked and his arrogant, punk style tongue won over many a girl. Other buskers and musicians were troubled by this and many had their tail feathers ruffled by Ziggy's comments.
Mark Meyers, a Flemish singer-songwriter, summarized many an opinion when he said to me, "I like you, but I don't like your friend."

Economic necessity had meant we rarely played as a duo. The money worked out better if we played separately. We busked a few bars in the early days, but as Ziggy intensified with his drinking I grew steadily more annoyed with him. I began to withhold money from him, because he would simply drink it all away.
What he did eleven years earlier did not threaten me.... but if he was to drink away our money in a foreign land? That threatened me.
I was hoping he could hold himself together enough for the gig, but.....
"Oh sorry, not tonight. There is football on the television," the World Cup was in progress, "Do you want a drink?"
My paranoid mind suspected the gig had been 'spiked' by other buskers, but Norman ( a high quality busker, both artistically and as a person) told me he'd had TWO gigs cancelled at the Zand because of the football. Nonetheless, I mistrusted Irish bars as gig options.

The arguments between Ziggy and I became more intense. I set my seal on saving... Ziggy set his on drinking. I would buy food for him, but I wouldn't give him money.
I had to prevent him from killing himself.
In the end I spoke to his parents. They arranged for Mo to drive over to rescue him. But Mo didn't do it cheaply. He may have done for me, but probably only because he'd have his trusted taxi-driver back. I think his impression of Ziggy was that he was some kind of fool.
Mo arrived and the greeting were cordial. He even gave me £20 to help me along. The car sped off.... and I was on my own. Too serious a demeanour to attract a great many friends - and there was no best friend in sight... only casual acquaintance.
I took over the cleaning job and thus I had the pressure of accommodation costs removed.
The solitude of my existence was brightened by the quantity of acquaintance I had, even though the quality of these friendships were pallid.

Into the Unknown - my Fate is sealed
A phone call to my wife a month or so into my Belgian sojourn set a seal on my Fate and my expectations....
"I may be able to get over soon to see you and Rachel,"
"Yes, fine! I'm sure you can stay with your brother... and Mo said he'll put you up."
"So.... it's like that?!?"
"Yes, it is.."  she asserted.

Something clicked! Before the call I considered reconciliation possible. After the call reconciliation became impossible, because I didn't want it. I felt released from all my senses of loyalty. If I was to come back to England and visit Rachel then I would come back to where she lives... not some other place. To infer this is not on the table is to make my marriage divorce, not separation.
From that point on I never gave any thought to marriage repair.
Instead, I suffered a period of severe, gnawing depression that stripped away even my will to work. In the Koffie Bridge ( the booking in point for the Groen Platz terrace) I attempted to pour my heart out to Greg, a Mancunion busker of stocky build with a loud bullhorn voice and a 'fock' in every sentence. He could have made a fine Sergeant...."Attenshun...you focking shits!"
"Hey Greg, what do you think I should do about my marriage breakdown..."
"I don't wanna hear about it! I've been through it and I don't focking wanna talk about it. Just focking forget about it and get on with your focking life!"
After 3 or 4 days of numbing depression and soul sickening, causing a failure to work.. and thus survive... effectively, his tirade was the perfect cure.
Simple! Just get on with my fock...erm...fucking life.

The embryo of Orpheus is shaped. Rachel......Moving forward he can hope to see a place where he has found a sanctuary... a place he can look back to see her standing there.    Lyrics from 'He doesn't look around' - penned Spring,1995.
On such bridges of Fate can philosophies and lives be shaped.... from a sudden, unexpected riposte or a sudden, unexpected statement.

Ziggy phoned the Boomerang and told me he was returning to Antwerp. He claimed he had control over himself once more.
Upon his return we teamed up once more as a duo, gaining good energy from our audiences. But this time he simply slipped more rapidly back into drunken stupor.
We pulled away from the duo yet again.
I maintained the cleaning job, while he had the task of earning his rent. Arguments grew about money. I refused to help him with his accommodation while he was drinking so heavily.
He teamed up with another busker and one night I found myself criticized by this other busker for an entire mish mashed version of the truth about finances between Ziggy and I. I became furious..... and was tempted to tear the both of them apart.

It was becoming increasingly evident that I could not recover emotionally within the confines of the Hostel. Any girl that arrived was instantly hit upon by Ziggy, his busker friend or Arian, the new assistant to Heyme. Arian, like Heyme, was Dutch and a good singer-songwriter... although he never seemed to trust his songs enough to play them to terraces.
The swarming wasps around each morsel of fruit made me lose my appetite from the first... emotional void continued.

Conscienceplein
There is a calm, peaceful square with tremendous acoustics and it tended to instil a hallowed, holy feel within me. It is the Conscienceplein. For the junkies that sometimes inhabit the square there seems a blindness to its beauty.... yet even inside these there is probably some awareness of the natural power of this place. People speak of ley lines and power points, where there is almost mystic incarnation. This square had that sort of power to me. It awoke my soul and filled it with awareness beyond my mind and heart.
Somehow... I knew something would happen.   

Love... or nothing
"The girls here? You tell them they're beautiful, screw them.... and then they follow you around for a few days. Then they disappear!"
This was Ziggy's prognosis on the girls in Antwerp. They did appear to be very flighty and manipulative.
"So relax! You're walking around with such a long face. Try to smile a bit and get yourself laid. But don't look for love. You won't find it here."
"I want love! I'll find love... or nothing," I answered.

Inwardly, I was curious about the background thinking of the females here in Antwerp. Most of the girls in the orbit I was circling were beautiful, slim and usually aged between 17 and 24. None of these seemed likely to interest me, because I set up a mental yardstick.... any girl unable to see through Ziggy would be a waste of space and energy to me. If I found one that didn't like him, or was indifferent to him, I would be getting warm on the trail of achieving my aim..... Love. Love, or nothing.
My world had been stripped away. I needed something solid to replace the vacuum.... another world.
There is a saying, 'Life begins at 40'.
My life had ended at 40..... now I waited for a new life to begin.   

Finn
I was, meanwhile, on the look out for new duo possibilities. Finn ( the  ex-assistant at the Hostel) was equally on the look out.

Finn had fallen for one of the manipulative Flemish girls... Isabelle. He was Finnish, naturally enough, and geared ( like me) to more constant emotional impulses than the Antwerp Village indulged in.
Isabelle had a grudge with the owner of the Boomerang. The owner left strict instructions NOT to let the girl into the place. But Isabelle would work on any guy who looked promising for access and (probably) some form of revenge. She claimed the Hostel owner owed her money.
Finn, being assistant at the Hostel, was the prime target. So she wooed him... and he responded through the need left by loneliness and emotional isolation. One day, Heyme discovered them both in the Hostel.
Isabelle was told to leave... and Finn, in his anger, resigned his post.
This caused much hurt between Heyme and Finn as they were close friends. Both were too proud to re-build the bridges. Finn was free to see Isabelle as much as he chose.... and for three or four days he was transported to Paradise. Maybe once Isabelle was sure Finn would not re-take the job at the Hostel she dropped him from the clouds.... and he landed with a pained splat amongst the bars of Antwerp.
Finn was a nice guy. His fault was being naive.

Tom was carrying a curious instrument which was some kind of miniature banjo thingy, or was it some kind of mandolin style ukelele? I had never seen the like before. Nor, it seemed, had anyone else. It must have been a one-off.
"It was made in 1912," Tom informed me.
He was learning how to play it and knew only a few melodies. But he also played the guitar... and he sang with a wonderful Irish lilt and brogue.
"I'm going to Prague," growled Greg, " Tom here is a friend of mine. Look after him while I'm away."
I could take that as an order... not a request. But how shrewd of Greg to immediately recognize the potential compatibility of Tom and I. Enough to seek to introduce us to each other.

Tom was the catalyst I was waiting for. Almost instantly our friendship blossomed. He was also staying at the Boomerang.
We rehearsed a few songs and polished them off as we played them on the terraces and in the bars. At first we probably sounded unco-ordinated, but eventually we would be disappointed if we did not get applause.

Tom was an ex-alcoholic - "You wouldn't have liked me when I was drinking."
This would be most likely... as he had a build that would daunt most people if he decided to be aggressive, which, it seems, he often may have been fuelled by drink. But his demeanour had changed to that of a gentle giant... charming all around him. His easy manner made him many friends. But Tom and I really locked onto each other.

Irit
Ziggy had brought his hairdressing equipment with him on this jaunt. He cut my hair.... taking it all off.... leaving me with the bald look. The ceremony took place in the Boomerang common room. Irit, a German girl staying at the Hostel, watched the proceedings from close by, as piece by piece my hair littered the common room. It is curious how we are able to almost read the unconscious signals of others. The signals I felt I was receiving from Irit transformed upon the completion of the hair cut.
'Fickle,' thought I. 'Or interesting?'

Irit was 18... and had been working at the Sfinks Festival. She had brown hair hanging straight, shoulder length.... and a face that drew recollections of the 'love of my life'  almost 20 years earlier. Only her re-assurances made me feel easier about my new look... even though everyone said it looked good.
Since arrival in Antwerp I had been wearing a baseball cap.... almost as a symbol of who I am. It was handy as a hat to take round terraces after performing. In essence, however, it could be argued I was self-conscious about my bald patch on the top of my crown. It could also be argued I wore it as a damning indication of my life on inner psyches.
I continued to wear it, for a day or so, as I adjusted to the 'new me,' then I accepted my new look and never thought to put the cap on again... until it was lost and long forgotten.

Tom had begun to socialize with Irit and, as a result, so did I.... until she swung equally into my orbit. Tom and I would have a miniature entourage following us around on our terrace runs... and Irit was amongst them. The easy camaraderie I felt with Tom left me relaxed in his company... therefore I began to relax with other people... usually those whom Tom would introduce to me.

A chance to escape the Boomerang
Things move on, however, and Irit told me that leaving the Boomerang to move to another Hostel.... a smaller and quieter one. Tom told me he was also looking to see if he could move there. This smaller hostel sounded idyllic and I dearly wanted to move to such a place ... especially with Tom and Irit as company. But I did not know whether such an option would be on the table for me... so I gave broad hints to Tom by indicating my dissatisfaction with the Boomerang. Things were getting worse there for me.
Antwerp is plagued by mosquitoes for most of the year. They are particularly bothersome compared to the average middle Europe type. They are so annoying it might explain why Antwerp has a 24 hour bar/cafe culture. It's a waste of time trying to sleep in the dark. They wake you just as you are falling asleep... and leave you with a mass of bites that tend to itch and irritate. It takes awhile to learn that if you don't scratch or worry at a bite it will clear itself up quickly.
The Boomerang was heavily infested with mosquitoes... especially the lower floors. As the cleaner I was able to take the top floor dormitory as a privilege.
This was good! Mosquitoes were far rarer there and, more often than not, the room was mine alone. This was also due to the friendship of Heyme and Arian.
But the Boomerang had been sold... and the new owners were not greatly interested in either music or having a 'cleaning job.' Nor were they amenable to me being anywhere other than where the other guests were placed. Therefore my privacy... and rehearsal space... was removed. Having got used to the experience of both for the first time since leaving England I was determined to maintain them.
In addition Ziggy continued to swamp me while I was staying in the same dormitory. He wasn't always drunk... but he WAS always talking and in a mind blowing rewind.
It was the better option to create space away from him.

Ken Post
Tom asked me whether Ziggy should be told about the mini hostel in Dambruggestraat...
"No!" I insisted, "I want space!"
It would have driven me mad if he had been there too... not to mention his coming home drunk.
 Ken Post
As it was, I had to meet the Hostel guardian, Ken Post. Ken  was an American busker from New York. People may conclude he is endowed with New York directness and transparency... but there is something enigmatic about him that would surprise those who may choose to judge a book by its cover. He can hover between genius and fool and perhaps, in doing so, reminds us that there is precious little difference between the two.
"Well! How long are you staying?" asked Ken.
"I'll be here for two weeks," replied Tom, " Then I'm on my way to Switzerland to stay with friends."
Ken nodded, easy with that. He looked at me, "And you?"
I had no plans of any type. I had no home to return to. I was a refugee finding out if I had found asylum... or eventual deportation.
"Erm... I'm not sure," I replied.
"OK! Well you can sort that out with Vera. She runs the place. She's away for awhile, so I'm running the ship. I can't speak for her so if you're still here when she gets back... like I said... sort it out with Vera."

He ran through the general relaxed rules of the house. The ground floor held the dormitory beds. That was where Irit, Tom and I would sleep.There were beds for about six people, at a pinch. The upper storeys consisted of rooms held privately by individuals. The ground floor also held the small dining room, kitchen and shower. A minuscule back garden, sealed by a high wall, offered access to the toilet.... an outside affair.
To me, this new accommodation was like heaven. The people upstairs rarely came down... and when they did their ambience was good. There was Martin and Carmel, both Irish... and a Finnish girl, plus, of course, Ken.

So.... a kitchen to cook, a peaceful environment... with great company.

An Emotional Stirring
Irit was staying only two or three days more, because she had to return to school in Potsdam. Sitting next to her by the dining table I received a re-awakening of something seemingly long buried from my life.... emotional attraction. I became enamoured by her... and she seemed to be different from the other girls. She wouldn't be sucked in by Ziggy's re-wind. But she was going away soon.
That made me sad.

Ziggy was obviously wanting in on Dambruggestraat. I wouldn't even tell him the address. It would be a disaster for him to crash in on my haven. In Dambrugge the opportunity would be there to take a girl back and talk to them.... without Ziggy steaming in and diluting the conversation in the hope of a 'quickie.' Any girl that gave Ziggy the time of day was out of the picture with me.
Whether Ziggy deserved my attitude or not....? I couldn't say.
But I could say I wanted MY space, MY time, MY thoughts... and MY choice of which friends I would see in the course of a day.

Tom and I worked well as a team with cooking, washing up, shopping and being out at the right times for work. The first night in Dambrugge was a warming experience. Tom slept in the dormitory loft, accessed by a wooden ladder. Irit and I slept downstairs from the loft.
The camaraderie was the beauty of the experience. Irit's calming, soft voice inspired glimpses of re-captured meaning to my existence. Her "goodnight" ( spoken in Deutsche) spun across to me and caressed my tortured soul.
I slept with a smile.
Or tried to.
The mosquitoes had other ideas. In the morning Tom and I dealt with the mosquito problem. We were plagued considerably less by them after that.

Emotional Disappointment
The evening before the morning that would see Irit depart for Germany saw all three of us in the Musiekdoos. Ziggy was in there. Naturally, he joined us. Tom and I had the task of taking on the terraces and so we left Irit, alarmingly, alone with Ziggy... and his rewind seemed to have some effect on Irit. Or was that simply my Paranoia? I was thinking Ziggy, with drink, would seek to manipulate Irit into 'inviting' him back to Dambrugge. This would be his way to jump in onto this new 'Eldorado.'

Upon our return... Irit was not back. My estimation of her dropped a radical distance.
"She had better not bring him back here!" I fumed.
I knew Ziggy's likely strategy..... "I've got no money and nowhere to stay tonight. Could you put me up?"
Some form of manipulation. This paranoia/cynicism proved correct.

Through the door came Irit with a slurry eyed Ziggy in tow. That I was angry was an understatement.
With Irit I was disappointed and furious. My trust in her had proved groundless. If I spoke to her it was very cold and monosyllabyllic.
To Ziggy, I was outwardly more furious.
Irit was leaving in the morning. I had no wish to speak to her.... not even to say farewell. She had no doubt about my anger.
In the morning I was colder than ice toward Ziggy. I wanted him out and away from my haven.

My critical assessment concluded it would need two more verses. But everything was said... and the song was too 'poor me'.
How to brighten it?
To fulfil my need... I must fulfil another's......
Do I see sorrow in your eyes? Will I say "No", turn away?- Or stay looking at you though you can't hide your pain? See your loneliness, see your dismay?....
Suddenly the song had evolved into poignant potency because it had empathy for all people of the world who could read their story from the words.
The final verse....
Do I see longing in your eyes? - Will I say "No", turn away? - Or stay looking at you hoping I can be there - To bring comfort and warmth to your day?....
The melody was framed onto a waltz (3/4). As my new creation fully emerged from its shell I stroked it. It was a part of me manifesting onto voice and guitar. As with any baby I took parental care to nurture its fragile early life... giving it energy to grow.

The Statue and the Flying man
I spent the evening working with Tom, but I hazily distracted. I wanted my creation to remain with me despite the spoiling concentration required on events that intervened. Sometimes a song simply disappears. I usually work by the principle that any song lost to memory after a day is probably a dud song. But 'Are you out there?' was my first sole creation in Belgium. I wanted to protect it.
Ken, Tom and I had co-operated on a humorous song telling the tale of the 'Statue and the Flying man'. It concerned an incident that had occurred in the Cathedral Square between two street performers. Tom had witnessed it and his telling induced reams of laughter from Ken and I. We can firmly say our collaborated  song tells "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing like the truth."

Ken spent half a year in New York and half a year in Europe trying to become a 'star' or, if not, just enjoying the crack of it all. He always dared to try to push both himself and his music. My persistent weakness was that I rarely pushed enough... it seems a lifelong flaw. Ken was trying to put together a video for his song, 'Welcome to Antwerp', and he had conscripted Tom to film him in various locations around the city during the day, while I was busy with my creation. I suggested he approach ATV (Antwerp Television) with the song and completed video. It led eventually to ATV doing an interview and allowed Ken to add another piece of publicity to his cv.

Chat Noir - a warm encounter in the warm Summer night
After the evening was gone and the night drifted to two in the morning I strolled, via the Conscienceplein, with Ken and Tom back towards Dambruggestraat. Ken wanted to test the feasibility of night video shots in the Conscience.
While Ken danced from here to there... with Tom in attentive pursuit.... I took in the peace of the Square. This peace remained palpable despite the odd twang coming from Ken's guitar, or Ken and Tom's technical exchange on which spot was best.... or the occasional giggle of two girls sitting against the plinth that paraded a stone faced, re-assuring Hendrik Conscience. Hendrik was accredited with teaching the people of Antwerp how to read.... at least that was the mish-mashed legend I was told. Whatever the mundane reality may have been my mind distorted the imagery into a pictorial farce that I found slightly humorous...... "OK, Cedric, now you can read..... Next!"

With nothing to do, except sit and watch my dancing friends, I remembered my new song. I drew out my guitar and played. I was aware of the two girls behind me. Whether they listened, or not, they fulfilled my desire for an audience and that was important for the inner mood.
When a song has been written - and when it derives from an immediate emotion - it is as though an inner child is doing the singing.
When does a baby become a distinct and separate entity from its mother?
When does a mother feel that a baby is an independent being?
The two girls ceased their giggling. They came to sit to the left of me about 3 metres distant. The song drew to its sad and melancholic end....
"That was a nice song!" said the girl dressed in black... with black hair and dark pools for eyes.
"Thanks," I replied, shyly embarrassed, "It's a new song I wrote today. I'm trying not to forget it."

"Where do you come from?" asked the blond companion. She had a slightly fuller appearance, well endowed in all the right places. With her bright, short Summery skirt she was more instantly appealing on a physical plane. But my future experience on the continent would teach me to swiftly dismiss people who trawl out "Where do you come from?" as an opening line.Those who grew important to me had their very own personal assessment of where I was coming from.... right or wrong.

The dark-haired girl, in contrast to the blond, seemed to be seeking to blend into the night everything except her face and mind, yet this very striving somehow made her more visible to me. The blonde girl was Anya. The dark-haired girl was...
"Charlene! But I don't like the last bit! I call myself Char."
Well, I guess my first impression was of a small black kitten. But Char was close enough in sound to the French word Chat ( cat). A cat that sought to blend into the night. Chat Noir. The cat had grown to nineteen years old.
"We go to the same school," said seventeen year old Anya.
Through the ticker tape of intros I asked Char what she wanted to...
"I want to write a book," said she.

Cliche! Everyone seems to want to write a book, thought I.......including me. But I picked up the ambience of creative reaching.... so I said, " Sounds interesting."
Meanwhile Tom and Ken had completed their dance....or had noticed the sudden onset of a more interesting dance and wanted in.

It was August... Summer...and Antwerp. The early hours of the morning were atmospheric in such a place as the Conscience. Words danced in weaving patterns as the time moved to five....
"Well!" said Ken, " How about a coffee back home? You wanna come, girls?"
Char and Anya chewed it over... then said, "OK!"....with the qualification that Anya had to catch a bus at seven, while Char had to leave by nine for work. Yeah, I know these aren't exactly normal hours etc., but this is Antwerp. Day is often viewed as night and vice versa.

Jokes and superficial subjects - guess that was the brunt of it. But it seemed Char and I belonged in a different field, seeing things in a different way to the others. I can make this assertion despite the sparsity of our vocal exchange.
I just knew there was some special link between us..... and yet I didn't know this at all. How can I begin to explain any of this?

Don't let her out of your life!
We all sat around the dining table at Dambrugge, except for Tom. He clucked in a humorous assimilation of 'mother', making tea or coffee. Char and I sat side by side, but it was a social atmosphere that demanded open dialogue between us all so any one on one effort was unworkable. So I resorted to body signals. My arm brushed against hers and there was no hasty retraction from her.... nor a belated one. A promising sign.
Anya left at seven, but Char stayed until near nine. When she made to leave I saw her to the door. Inside me, something was shaking with urgent need. It stripped away all of my outer veneer. It screamed at me, 'DON'T LET HER OUT OF YOUR LIFE!'.
"I don't know why," I stammered, " but I MUST see you again! Please meet me tonight!"
My expression was a blur of urgent, panicky pleading. Char's face bore a mixture of surprise, confusion and... curiously enough... traces of a similar urgency. I didn't understand why I had so crashingly fallen for her. I am usually reticent to commit myself too rapidly with new acquaintance.

I didn't know if she really wanted to see me again.
She said she would meet me.
I had to be content with that.

Once away from her presence I was able to re-muster Brian a little. I was mystified by my emotional outburst to this female stranger. It wasn't like me to be so.

Up until Irit my social contacts were courtesy of Ziggy, Tom or the extroversy of chance acquaintance. I had remained fairly introverted. Now my extroversy gradually increased as I accepted this new world as my reality. Slowly, though not overly consciously, I would move toward building my own social circles.... because I understood the motivation for such a thing.
An important part of 'what we are' is the knowledge that there are those who care for 'what we are'.
I had been catapulted into a new life... but this new life was worthless without self-value or without someone who wanted  to know a little ABOUT my new life.
Not someone in England who spares a few minutes on the phone, but someone here NOW...seeing me, hearing me NOW. I wanted someone who loved me enough to shed a tear if I slipped into the River Schelde and drowned.
A selfish thing?
No! It is self-value!
Without this there is no valid existence and no aspiration. Irit had fired me to write a song through my disappointment with her, but it could only have occurred through my awareness I was valued by her in some way. Like a spark in the night, self value had briefly entered my life once more through Irit - inspiring a desire to do more than just exist. To regain that value I wrote my 'siren song' and it had an immediate effect. It stopped the frizzling away of self-value by directly aiding my introduction to Char.
With my music and my social matters I faced two daunting mountains. But when ascending mountains you can rarely see the summit.... merely the edge or ridge that obscures the view of the ascent beyond. Perhaps this is best.... otherwise it might be decided it is too big a task to attempt.
One more ridge is merely one more bridge.

Char - with her black, midnight hair...
It was too hot to play during the day and too hot for people to greatly desire to sit on terraces. Those who did would find it too hot to appreciate live music. Late evening was work time for the busker.
This meant that Tom and I slept until mid-afternoon, or later, as a general routine. Then we would cook a healthy dinner and relax ourselves awake in the cool dining room. It seemed Dambrugge was the only place I'd been to, in Antwerp, that didn't surround me with humidity and heat. One we were relaxed and refreshed we would head out , around nine in the evening, to work.

In the Conscience Tom and I set up to play the terraces there. I was nervous because I had arranged to meet Char in this square.. and she was due to arrive any moment. That's if she DID plan to honour our early morning agreement to meet. I didn't really know her at all. For all I knew I may never see her again. I was desperately hoping she would come. At the same time I was desperately hoping she would not arrive while I was having a bum gig, so my nerves ensured I concentrated on my singing and performance. I was singing 'Nancy Spain'. It was going well and the energy from the audience felt good....
Char came spinning hurriedly into the Square with her black, midnight hair newly washed and vibrantly swelling around her semi-excited, semi-nervous face. Clearly she was contritious on being slightly late, but clearly she had viewed our meeting as an important event by the time she had evidently spent in preparation.
My joy at her arrival was matched by my relief that I was performing and singing well... and by an inner confusion about what should happen next.
Having lived in the same area of Southern England for the past forty years it could validly be claimed I was Culturally Closeted (CC). I expected people and situations to respond in a time honoured fashion. There was little in that experience to clue me up on what happens next in this situation.

I was in the situation where I needed to work.... and where I needed to progress this first date with Char. I had to try to achieve both without too much compromise on one or the other. On the one hand I risked annoying my duo partner... on the other I risked annoying and possibly losing Char.
Would she be willing to follow me around while I worked.
I half expected this, but I couldn't be sure.... and it gave me a shy feeling. In such a case I wanted her to hear me perform perfectly... with never an unappreciative audience to make me feel 'small'.
As it turned out, Tom and I were able to continue playing terraces, while Char did a mixture of waiting or alarmingly disappearing for awhile. In between terrace sets I would seek to bridge the difficult mind link and play her love songs. While I sang to her our eyes drunk thirstily of each other and spoke in ways our minds were too primitive to comprehend. Thousands of people flooded the Cathedral  and its environs with a party spirit that is part and parcel of Antwerp in mid Summer. It was exciting, but such a gem as Char could be lost to the crowd forever if I failed to win her desire to continue this somewhat chaotic first date and make sure of a second.
As I played terrace sets with Tom I hoped Char wouldn't feel I'm neglecting her and poutily dismiss me from her life.
The nervousness of this first date made it all too clear that a second date should be in a private environment, where meat can be put on to the bones of attraction.

The souls of Char and I dance
Char worked at the Zoo as a Summer job. The zoo was by Central Station - less than five minutes stroll from Dambrugge. Char suggested that she visit me the next day after work. This was far more amenable an idea than that first date. Suddenly everything clicked in. She could visit me after work at around five.... and when she left to go home, around nine, I could get to the task of playing terraces with Tom.
As I retired to bed, after the testing experience of the first date, I could sleep, relaxed, in the knowledge that my new life was beginning to take shape -and that, after believing my life was over, I had a new dawn...and a new girlfriend.

Char would come, after work, to visit me. We would lose ourselves somewhere in each other's soul. I felt sure, on a root level, that we were in love within the first couple of days. Our souls had raced to this... before our mind, body and heart had had time to reason it all out.
It almost seemed our souls already knew each other... long before we were confined into separate organic beings here on Earth....

OK! It's your stage, Cranky Brian! Shoot....

The gig finished at twelve and, as tends to happen after a successful gig, an uprush of energy and adrenaline left me speaking to friends or clientele at the bar. My CC experience assured me that casual arrangements needed no special time.
At around one I made my way to the Conscience to see if she was there. As I arrived I was disappointed to catch no sight of her.
There were three figures lying down in the vicinity of the Hendrik statue - two guys and a girl. One of the guys was groping intimately with the female, who seemed, on the face of it, comatose. It seemed the height of tackiness to be groping a female who was unaware of proceedings in a public place - even if she was his girlfriend. In fact, it seemed the height of tackiness... full stop.
I passed by....... and my heart leapt to my throat as I recognized the female lying lost to the world... as the lusty youth groped with his hand beneath her jeans.
She had another boyfriend?
That's why I couldn't find her?

Anger and betrayal welled up within me.
Just walk away and pretend you didn't see her... then forget her!
But then I wondered whether she was even aware of what was occurring. Much less who she was with.
I could see her eyes were closed... although she moaned with a distant response to the guy's stimulating. But the overall impression indicated she was unaware of proceedings.
One inclination was to storm right up and say, "Char! What are you doing? Where was you?"
But if this WAS a boyfriend I could be made to look foolish. For all I knew, I could be the 'other' in this... not him.
She may have been dating this guy for months.

So.... betrayed, wretched and humiliated... I sat down within a few feet of the spectacle. With a quiet, mournful voice I moaned in an accusing and 'how could you?' way: "Char..."

Her head moved slightly from side to side and a brief glimmer of awakening stirred in her garbled throat. I stood up and walked to another angle. I spoke louder, more firmer, "Char! It's Brian!"
She swung her head around more urgently and her voice spoke testingly my name..."Br..Brian?"
Her hands pushed at the Valentino creep as she realized his advantageous pawing. The moment I realized she recalled my name, and wanted my presence, I moved in to take control of the situation.
I pulled Char into my arms as the protesting Valentino wondered who I was... and what had happened to his catch.

"Brian? I'm sorry," slurred Char, "Where was you? I waited so long!"
I wept inwardly at the words. She was waiting? Looking for me? I was not there when she needed me? The whole idea tore into me like a lion's claw.
As it was I had crashed in onto a witnessing of her weaknesses - one she may have sought to hide from me. What sort of cocktail knocked her out like this?
"Hey!" interjected Valentino, " That's my girl! Who are you?"
"She's not your girl! She's not for you.! And that's no way to treat her!" came my angered reply, " I'm taking her home!"
"I'll come with you!" stated Valentino.
His friend had come alert to the unexpected interruption and was angling to back Valentino up. There were two of them - one of me - and they weren't small in body. So I followed a tactic of diplomacy and firmness, but I didn't see any reason to mask my contempt for them.
"No!" I insisted, " I will take her home alone!"

Taking barely conscious Char home
I stood up and lifted Char until her arm was nestled across my shoulder, while my right arm supported her stumbling steps. Her dead weight in less lucid physical efforts made the task pretty hard, but I began the journey while telling Valentino and his pal to go way.
But Valentino believed he had made a conquest and was anticipating the great love affair to begin. I wasn't going to be the one to tell Char who she should date, though I hoped I was the one who fitted the bill. But Char was not in a position to speak for herself.
I simply knew instinctively she loved me. Or did she?
I knew instinctively she would give Valentino his marching orders the moment she became aware of him. Or would she?

Still, however, Valentino persisted - and insisted on helping Char home also. I guess it did make the journey a bit easier. Char virtually had to be carried. The procession stumbled its way to the apartment she lived in with her brother. It was around two in the morning and a light on in the apartment showed that her brother would be up and awake. Another tactic to get rid of the luggage...
"Thanks for helping, but her brother is here. He won't appreciate three guys coming in this time of the morning."
Actually, I had not yet been in the apartment, nor had I met Char's brother - so I really didn't know anything about what he would think...or say.
"No,I'll come in too,"  insisted Valentino. There were a heap of stairs to struggle up, and with Char all but brain dead I had no more right, in Valentino's eyes, to enter the apartment than him. It was hard to counter such a claim because Char had NOT, heretofore, taken me into the apartment. It may be she would not wish me to visit the apartment if she was sober.
So, in a semi-polite circumstance of verbal fencing, we carried Char up the stairs to the apartment, where Pierre, her brother, stood waiting for us.

With dark, curly hair and eyes, like Char, of black, fathomless depths, Pierre displayed, like Char, the history of Spanish blood in Belgium. There is no direct confirmation of this, but the Spanish occupation 300 years back suggested this impression to me. Originally, Char and Pierre were from the French speaking segment of Belgium, but they had lived long enough in Antwerp to consider themselves Flemish. Both, however, spoke English with a strong French accent. Naturally Flemish was their first language.
Pierre was twenty one, studious and quiet spoken. Char's bedroom was accessible only through Pierre's living room cum bedroom.

The entourage gave a greeting and a few words to Pierre... and then we proceeded into Char's room, where we laid her gently onto the floor. I sat down by her and she curled up around me as I placed my arms protectively around her body.

Valentino could see very clearly that there was a heavy bond between Char and I. His competitiveness began to slide and he turned slowly into self piteous melodrama and despair.
"Every time I try to get a girlfriend - something goes wrong," he lamented.
Well... I guess...from what I had witnessed of his ideas of gallant wooing.... he might have to change his attitude a bit in his quest for a female.
So I found myself playing emotional councillor to a guy who sought a massive step between creep and attractive.
"Somewhere there is a girl for you, but Char.." said I, unapologetic about my presumption while she was unable to speak for herself,"...is NOT for you!"
With the comment I tightened my hold on her and her semi-conscious hands tightened their hold on me. Even in her condition I could see the happiness in her smile whenever she became aware that I was there... guarding and holding her close.

After drinking the coffee Pierre had made, Valentino and his friend departed... with the re-assurance, from me, that Valentino would have his girlfriend within six months. Something almost holy seemed to possess me through my interaction with Char. Even Valentino seemed assured by my statement.

A new life gains a new sense of purpose
A few months later, while I waited to play the Conscience, I met Valentino once more by the bench surrounding the tree in the square...
"Hi!" he said, "Remember me?"
I didn't immediately. There was a lot of stuff crammed into those intervening months. Nonetheless he reminded me of our meeting that night and the blanks were filled.
"This is my girlfriend, Anna," said Valentino proudly, in a way that suggested it was in some way thanks to me. In a way of saying, "You were right!"
I guess I did spend a bit of time telling him how to make himself more appealing.
I really can't remember.

Once Valentino had left, Pierre and I laid Char gently onto her bed - and then we retreated into his room to talk.
"This is not the first time she has been like this. Sometimes it is worse," explained Pierre, " Three times she has been to the hospital because she had over-dosed. It is worrying, but what can be done? She needs to return to school to re-take exams in September! She has hardly studied! If she is to go to University she must pass these exams."

My feeling was that this was Fate. I had a task! In addition, I was in love.
My task was clear. I had to see if I could turn around Char's life.

"Thanks for bringing her home safe," Pierre continued, " If you wish, you may stay the night here. There is a spare mattress in Char's room."

But that was the key to Char/Brian. We were always able to surprise each other... and our carefully thought out plans for dealing with each other were flummoxed by this. It made for the most perplexing, fascinating relationship experience I have ever had. In fact, it was hard to know whether I WAS in relationship, or not. It was a case of one day at a time. The whole thing seemed crazy and impossible, but that was what made it glorious and soul lifting.

The second rescue of Char
A few days later I had arranged to call on her, but she had left a note asking me to find her on the Conscience. I found her sitting on the foot high wall that formed a tributary square before the frozen, benevolent stance of Hendrik. She was sitting with a friend named Bart and they were sharing a bottle of wine
I had taken on the mantle of crusading knight... and I was looking for potential dragons. For some reason Char had been overdosing and she had to be getting drugs from somewhere. So her friends tended to fall under my private suspicion. I held a strong belief that there were light and dark forces involved in the battle for Char. If I was working avidly for the light then there had to be someone working avidly for the dark.
Char's life was in danger. Something within me believed her death would have a dire effect on some future possibility. I have never had a reason to adjust or dismiss that intuition.
I drank a little of the wine, but declined the joint Bart offered. Not because I disapprove of smoking joints. It is nice, occasionally, to smoke a joint when one is offered. But I have never bothered actually buying the stuff. Anyhow, at that time it was important that I stand aside from the side of life Char allocated to taking drugs, or thinking of them.

It was very quick. Char's face glazed... and she began to slouch... keeling over off the wall. It was fortunate, I reflected, that I was there to catch her.
She may have badly hurt herself on the concrete awaiting her fall. I placed my back against the wall and held Char's torso across my lap.
Perhaps fazed, Bart excused himself and departed elsewhere. Perhaps he thought we'd be best left alone. If so, he was right.
Char was completely out for the count. It would be impossible to attempt to get her home. As a dead weight she would be too heavy to carry... and she would be too insensible to co-operate in any way in aided walking.
Her breathing was normal. She was not in distress
So I sat in that Holy square.... holding her...looking down lovingly on her peaceful, sleeping face. Through the passing of hours the heat of the evening turned to the cool of the night. I stayed in the same position... keeping her warm...though I shivered often in the night chill. I had to wait for her to revive before I could get her home.
Constantly I gazed at her sleeping, while I stroked her hair in comfort. I saw her place a thumb in her mouth... just as my daughter would often do. This magnified the melding and bonding of our two questing souls. A bonding that would enable me to 'feel' her across long distances and made her 'feel' me too.
I became aware of the vast power of communication we are capable of achieving - a capability so commonly suppressed by the disbelief of the mind.

Dawn had passed by the time she began to stir. I gently stood her up and hugged her for a long time as she sought to re-tune her awareness. She was disorientated and confused... but eventually fit to be escorted home.

Attraction, weaknesses and confessions
Her brother had gone away for the weekend. We had privacy.
For the next 10 hours, from early morning to mid-afternoon, we kissed, embraced, exchanged sweet nothings, or filled in essences of our life stories.
The conversation moved to my marriage.....and grief welled up in me as I looked up at her and cried,"I tried to do everything right! But it all turned out wrong."
It was a plea for her belief and understanding that this was so. She unveiled her concern and pain for me as I buried my head into her midriff and felt her arms enfold me with comfort.
"I will give you money to go see your daughter," she said.
The prospect of seeing my daughter would be a wonderful thing, but I knew it would be wrong to accept such an offer....
"No! I would feel wrong taking money from you like this."
But the offer held itself up as a statement of emotional commitment. I had built my first bridge to a person in a foreign land who directly cared for me. Cast adrift for more than two months I could finally claim some anchorage.

We spoke of how powerful our attraction was and then, on impulse, she picked up pen and paper and began writing furiously as I sat watching her. After she had finished the impulsively inspired prose she showed it to me and transformed the visual gobbledygook into a verbal translation. The prose spoke of the curious strength of our attachment and her fear that her weaknesses would let us both down. Those swiftly scribbled lines were ominously prophetic.
But Char was not the only one of us with weaknesses.... and the accuracy of the prose was also revealed in its recognition of an intense love that weathered all kinds of emotional assaults and conditions.
 

 
Fairy Tales are Real  (Hit back button to return to this page)
 

Fairy Tales are Real  (Hit back button to return to this page)
From the depths of despair I had been transported to Paradise... all in the space of less than three months. I was in love... and it felt great!
I left her apartment at two in the afternoon. I had not slept for over 24 hours, yet I felt exhilaratingly awake and alive. The sun shone from a blue sky and with a Mediterranean heat as I strolled the short distance from Char's place to the Cafe Centrum. I found Ziggy sitting on the terrace with a couple of teenage girls.
Ziggy was relaxing in a glow of self content.
"Sit yourself down, Brian!" he said chirpily.
I did, and then said, "I'm in love. I've just come from her place. She's gorgeous! She's special! I'm just so happy!"
"Well, Brian," said Ziggy, "This is the life. Sunshine, music and girls."

Tom bade farewell as he headed south for a two week period. Tom had proved the first true friend I could claim since my exile. The bridge that had led to him had proved itself by leading toward the bridge that led to Char.

My conversational matter with Char tended to be based on humour or sweet nothings. Char had a very secretive nature and she revealed snippets of her life frugally. Perhaps it was this that heightened mystery. I was always feeling there was much I did not know about her activities, so, even though we were in relationship, I felt somewhat excluded from her in many ways.
I would see her, more often, during weekdays; the weekend she tended to reserve for that part of her that excluded me. The whole thing made me a shade edgy.

Edginess gradually passed as my meetings with Char settled into some stability. At first, she would visit after work, but then:
"Um...Pierre is complaining. He says I do not pull my weight with the housework. I will have to go straight home after work."
So it became more common for me to visit her. But the stability remained.
There seemed to be no complications. I asked myself, "Is it as easy as that?"
It seemed to be. A part of me even became blase and bored. But even such brief moods as this heralded a vital change toward a vaunted goal of perceived normality.

Inspired by the overwhelming strength of our bond the cultural and circumstantial differences were blurred. Our minds could look at the powerful, unexplainable magnetism of our souls and declare it as a signal of the hand of Fate.
Once this was digested, it seemed to speak of positive qualities within us that - in our overly zealous negativity - we had over-looked. More succinctly, there occurred birth. The birth of a new hope. Within and without ourselves a hope of possibilities clung, like a bandage, to our heart.
To glimpse the impossibly wonderful transformation of one part of us gives an assurance that the despair dwelling oppressively over other embattled parts is not the inevitability it appeared to be. Instead, it seemed possible to change by substituting despair with new positive resolutions.
Our bond restored the most essential desire of all. The will to live.

Char told me she would be away for a few days, so we arranged an evening later in the next week for me to call in on her. This left a sudden gap in my vision of the 'Fairy Tale'.

A sharp reminder of Reality
Soft, balmy nights were frequent...almost expected. It was easy to be fooled into believing it would remain that way. But Antwerp was enjoying an unusually dry, hot Summer. I tried not to think too heavily on the future, but the bulk of my income was supplied by the bubbling terraces. In fact, the exuberance around the Cathedral area was so great that I would often walk with my guitar out of its case , because people would often stop me and ask me to perform. I would play a song and the people would dig into their pockets and shower cash into my 'hat'. The take from such a thing would often exceed the average of a medium sized terrace. I sang 'Nancy Spain' to one couple and the man gave me 2,000f. But he had his money's worth, because he recognized me and remembered the incident to me a couple of years further on. He said it was a special moment and thanked me once again.

But the parade into September warned me that eventually the weather would change, then it would be a hard Winter siege if I planned to cling on to this new life in Antwerp.
The awareness grew sharper when the long, dry Summer was suddenly interrupted by two days of rain... against a backdrop of cooler air. The Mediterranean feel was swept away and Antwerp transformed into a dour, depressed city intent only on functioning. It served as a sharp reminder.
I was floating in a fairy tale with Char, but the reality of my prospects looked grim.
I had come to love Antwerp. I had developed many friendships here. The city had made me feel at home. It had become my home city and my growing affinity with many of its inhabitants made me feel a love for Flemish culture.
But now....?

Whatever I felt, within my fairy tale, I was brought down to Earth by the rain. The harsh reality reminded me I was a stranger in a foreign land faced with a quandary.
How could I maintain myself in this city?
Char had instilled reason to live after the apparent destruction of forty years of my life. But there were serious material obstacles to work through if I was to attempt to stay in a city and country that harboured my emotional re-birth.
I was determined not to return to England. The only incentive for heading that way would be to see me daughter, but even she would soon be living in Ireland - even further away. Being unable to see my daughter was a running sore within my soul, but the land of my birth offered me no hope. Only the grinding suppression of my spirit.
But Antwerp offered me fairy tales and a basis for aspiration. It allowed me to follow my dreams, my ambition and my heart. I was not just another face ignored...alongside 55 million others. I was in a community where it was possible to be heard. I had to be here in Antwerp, because I became real here....not just another brick in the wall.

Ken, with his New Yorker tendency toward abruptness, was an ideal philosophical sparring partner. Our views were often poles apart, but we shared visions and ideas when they were not. He tried to show the world a hard edge - but toward me he often revealed an almost paternal compassion, shielded by hard edge advice (of course):
"Brian! Char is nineteen! Girls change their minds fast at that age,"
She certainly fitted this assessment though I countered by claiming this was different... because of our level of love.
But what level WAS that love?
Unless that love can be said to have elevated to unconditional... and affirmed as such... I would be riding for a fall. With Char it always felt as though I was riding for a fall anyway. But if I was not?
I needed to think practical.

I had to face up to my fears to survive
A crashing flood had washed away my life and the only emotional rock I could cling to had been Char. But she represented a slippery rock and the rapids would sweep me away the moment I lost my grip.
I had to think practical in order to survive.
I had to have an idea of how to swim before I lost that grip. If I did NOT lose my grip I would be more secure if my ideas had been worked out.
Fairy tales are great, but when the frog transforms into a Prince? Is it simply seasonal? Does the clock strike twelve and reduce the Prince back into a frog?
So think practical.
But I could not do this because I had no idea of the problems I would face. How could I estimate my turnover capability without a grounding of how seasons will affect such a thing? I had to contemplate indoor bar playing. But this represented a major block to me. I was not a finished article. In fact, I was struggling through the early steps of learning my craft.
Someone once told me that in music there is no other criteria than to be convincing.
I had an ability to convince... because I could feel my music and be aware how to combine soul and mind to hone out advantage when faced by an audience. Before playing a terrace I would study its inhabitants and do an on the spot assessment of them. I would estimate their ambience factor by placing the potential audience into a category or 'box' within my mind. I would then use my radar to assess their mood, artistic openness and other matters. From this I will select a set of songs to present before them.
Telepathic energy was a vital ingredient of the psyche to understand for a performer like me, because I sought to capture and then project a mood.
It tended to be harder to assess indoor audiences using this system. A failed assessment on a terrace was an annoyance, but no great deal... but a failed assessment in a bar or restaurant could wipe out that place as an option, because the bar staff may remember that failure.
There was much potential and much peril when it came to gigging or bar playing. I balked at the prospect.
But Ken had advice for this as well:
"There's a bar near the Conscience paying 2,000f for solo musicians. I'm doing a gig there. Why don't you ask if you can do one?"

I delayed doing this, but the rain reminded me I had to survive beyond the terrace season if I wished to keep Char in my life. I forced myself to ask the bar for a gig. They booked me for two weeks on. But my repertoire was still a limited thing. At about a song a week I was trying to memorize more songs. But to fulfil that gig - a full one- I would need my music stand and my songbooks before me. I felt I was totally unprepared for gigs, but I had to go for it.

There was a large Pizzeria where I often ate at - and the manager approached me and booked me for a mini gig at the place two weeks on. The theme would be Country Music and I felt I would need a couple of supporting musicians for this one. Sven (mandolin) and Kevin (fiddle) were happy to join me for the gig - and both were excellent musicians. We would only have to play 15 minutes or so in the restaurant proper, then we would play on in the cellar for awhile. So it seemed an easy enough commission once Sven and Kevin were recruited to the cause.

With frustrated puzzlement I chewed on this dilemma while I sat in the Musiekdoos the night before my next meeting with Char.
Herman took the stage and began singing. He had such an incredible range on his voice. It was as pure as a lead choirboy. But he had an adult timbre to vary this with. He was a massive fan of John Denver and he played many Denver covers.
But on this night he played the Denver song 'Lady'......... and it took me away.
He had captured the essence of my 'fairy tale'. His golden voice portrays this song with such splendour... the world should hear him do this.

Herman once confided in me and claimed he had a problem showing emotion to his girlfriend. He even claimed he was incapable of feeling emotion. But the truth lies in his rendition of 'Lady'. His soul transports itself onto the song automatically. He was automatically someone who loves. It was not something he had to feel.
It was him.
The tears he shed when when his relationship with Astrid came to an end were not because he had suddenly learnt how to feel.
The tears were him. Herman was only able to be sincere.
If we are all honest with ourselves we would have to admit that, in sincerity, we believe..... but, in between,with equal sincerity we doubt.

As Herman performed the song an idea sprang bright within me. After he had finished his set I approached him and I moved the conversation swiftly onto its purpose...
"Herman, if I gave you a couple of hundred francs - would you sing 'Lady' for me and my girl outside by the Schelde tomorrow evening?"
"It would be my pleasure to sing it for you. You do not need to pay me."
Roughly translated, culturally, in to Anglo Saxon understanding those words meant he would be delighted to give something he has an ability to give.But he would refuse payment because it would nullify the joy he felt in giving. I know this must be a hard concept for the typical US/UK mind to comprehend.
Herman and I arranged a signal for commencement of the riverside serenade the next night at a time I felt would be right for Char and I.

My Sweet Lady? A gift for you.
Char returned from her weekend away and when I called round she surprised me with a gift of 200 cigarettes. It made me very relieved I had arranged my own gift. Her gift was a unilateral expression of her love for me. My gift would be a unilateral expression of my love for her. The radar had made us co-incidentally inspired to symbolize love with a gift.

But she had yet to receive my gift. So she was unaware there would be one as I took her to the Musiekdoos for a drink. Once there, I spoke to Herman and the three of us strolled to the riverside, where Herman unpacked his guitar, while Char and I sat on a bench. Char was a shade confused about what was going on. She wondered why we had gone to the riverside with.....
Herman began to play his guitar....."I didn't know you would buy me those cigarettes, Char,"  said I, " but here is the gift I wish to give to you."....and the sweet tones of his guitar seemed to soften the evening air as the city drifted into the borders of a magical world where fairy tales are real. The distant cacophony of city noise seemed to blend with the notes into a benevolent backdrop of sound - a sound that receded from awareness as if by magic, while Herman weaved the mood....
'Lady?.....Are you Crying?
Do the tears belong to me?
Did you think our time together.... was all done

Char melted. "Ooh la la!" she exclaimed. She moved to nestle herself on my lap and then she kissed me... long and deep....as Herman continued the serenade with perfect delivery...
Lady...you've been dreaming - I'm as close as I can be - And I swear to you our time has just begun
Close you eyes and rest your weary eyes       It is quite possible that this was the most romantic moment I had ever experienced.
I promise I will stay right here beside you      It could be said this was the only true Valentino action I have ever done.
Today our lives were joined, became entwined I have often been romantic, but with any other girl it would seem corny taking it to this extent.
I wish that you could know how much I love you
But for Char it was natural and appropriate, because our love was based on the intensity of soul and, at that time, the mind had little to do with things.

Lady? Are you happy?
Do you feel the way I do?
Are there meanings that you've never seen before?
What the mind DID know was of vital importance, because I knew that Char needed to know she was loved - beyond any action, or lack of it, that may mark the foreseeable future.
Lady? My sweet lady?
I just can't believe it's true
And it's like I've never, ever loved before No matter how she may view herself Char has a purity in her soul that only one other person in my life could match.... my mother.
Close your eyes and rest your weary mind    Char bore the ambience of an imperilled daughter and just as strongly....
I promise I will stay right here beside you     ...the ambience of my mother's soul engraven into a different life, yet maintaining...
Today our lives were joined, became entwined ...that same selfless spirit.
I wish that you could know how much I love you  For char, it could represent liability, so she shielded this vulnerability with an outer veneer of cynicism and the re-assurance that she could deem herself callous.

Lady? Are you crying?                                    Char was a cat.
Do the tears belong to me?                             She wanted love, but she also wanted someone she could scratch.
Did you think our time together was all gone Purr and scratch.
My mind had been able to conclude this much.

Lady, my sweet lady                                        Herman sang and Char could purr, while I steeped myself in the magic these two cast upon my life.
I'm as close as I can be                                    But what made this event magic was the sheer improbability that Char and I could last the test of time.
And I swear to you...our time..has just begun All that could be said was that it had got this far and we were both intent on it going further.
Hence the symbolic gifts to signify this determination.

" What's wrong! What's happening?"
The back of my head was propped by Char's breast as I lay sandwiched between her legs with my hands peacefully rested on her twin tower knees. We were relaxed and happy in the Conscience. Char lightly caressed me as she laughed and joked with two of her friends, Bart and Andre. It was fine that they spoke in Flemish. It left me free to to drink the full richness of her physical presence.
Two young guys came to speak with Bart and though it was in Flemish it seemed as though they were moderately arguing over something. Suddenly one of the guys aimed a karate style side kick at Bart and Bart was pulled up and attacked further by the duo.
This surprised me.
In confusion I looked at Andre, but he seemed equally surprised and too nervous to intervene on behalf of his friend. Char was instantly upset by the attack, so as Bart was one of her friends it seemed it would be down to me to break up the fight. I got up, which made Char even more upset, but something had to be done.
I did not know what it was all about so I had no anger to unload, but there was clearly a leader and the led about the assailants. Mr Leader had done the talking and he had launched the attack. So I concentrated on Mr Led. I walked to the fracas and put my arm on the shoulder of Mr Led. I turned him round and said,"Hey!"
Mr Led backed off, saying, "I'm Sorry! Don't hit me!"
I retorted, "Don't you think two on one is a little unfair?"
But it was evident he was harmless so I turned my back on him and concentrated on Mr Leader and Bart as they fought on, "Hey, you guys! Calm down and talk if you got a problem!"
I approached them, but Mr Leader broke off the scuffle and retreated out of the square after re-joining Mr Led. Bart was grateful for my aid, but I had only sought to keep the peace.

Char was near hysterical, "It's my fault! It's my fault!"
Then she was angry and arguing heatedly with Bart and Andre.
Then she seemed to be angry with me.
The melee meandered around a corner with Flemish suddenly proving itself as a severe communication barrier. When I tried to hold Char she agitatingly pulled herself away from me.
What had I done wrong?
Nonetheless it was evident Char was so awash with anger and panic to be in need of assertive calming.  I forcefully grabbed both her wrists and shouted into her face, "Char! What's wrong? What's happening?"
Suddenly her face changed into a curious mixture of relief and realization, "Of course!" she said, "I forgot! You can't understand Flemish."
"Char, you know I can't!"
"Ah yes...but it was my fault...and I would have died if you had got hurt. I never thought you would be in danger...because of me."