how to relax (part I)

K. D. and Gloria walked into the cafe a little after three that afternoon. I'd just arrived and ordered an espresso. They plopped down across from me armed with shopping bags. They looked exhausted.

"What the hell are you guys doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're backpacking through Europe and you have like six shopping bags on you. It's your second day here!" I laughed. They shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

"I'm just giving you a hard time. I really have no idea what you're going to do with that stuff other than ship it back or maybe put it in a storage locker at the train station. I assume your return flight is out of Schiphol?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's probably the cheapest and most convenient alternative. So, what did you buy."

K. D. groaned. "Shoes. Lots of shoes."

"Shut up. What about the African mask and the globe that marks smoke-friendly cities with a pot leaf?"

"Those are legitimate souvenirs. They say to everyone, 'Hey, I was traveling through Europe and I found this weird shit that has no value whatsoever.' I can show it to my friends."

Gloria put her head in her hands. "Oh my God."

"I've been thinking that I need a room just for weird stuff. No furniture, nothing functional at all. Just strange objects and knickknacks scattered strategically around the room. Maybe some stuff hanging on walls, some dangling from the ceiling. A few things glued or nailed to the floor at odd angles that seem to defy gravity."

"And what room are you planning on using?"

"I was thinking the spare bedroom would work?"

"You're a child."

"It sounds pretty fun to me, K. D." Gloria glared at me. "Hey, I'm just being honest. I mean, shit, I don't live with him so it just sounds cool. I mean, if I come to visit I want to crash in the weird room."

"See?"

"You're both children. I'll just get a sandbox and you two can play in the backyard."

"That's a cool idea, too."

"Yeah, I'd be even more likely to come visit if you had a sandbox."

Laughter. When we all ran out of steam and stopped to breath I said, "Look, I figured you guys are probably pretty wiped out. You've been going pretty hard ever since you arrived so I made reservations for massages at a spa. A Dutch spa. Meaning, co-ed and clothing optional."

"Really?" asked Gloria. She seemed interested.

"Yeah. It'll be relaxing. You'll feel like you're in heaven."

"I don't know, Michael. It's just--"

"Money? Hey, it's on me if that's the case. I mean, I made the reservations without even asking you so it's only fair."

"No, no, no. That's not it. Thank you, but, no, there's no way you're paying for that. Hell you've already been too generous! It's just--"

"Why did you make the reservations, Michael?"

"Because it seemed like a good idea."

"But why?"

"Because massages feel good."

"Or maybe you just want to see me naked."

"I've seen you naked. Last night. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Well ..." Gloria laughed. "Yeah, okay. Sorry. The American in me."

"Fair. Okay, so we need to be there in an hour so we should get going. It's probably about a half hour walk. We can take your bags back to my apartment first then go."

Gloria turned her head. "K. D.?"

"Sure. Why not? Michael hasn't steered us wrong yet. Thanks, man."

"No problem."

"But we'll pay our own way."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

I paid for my espresso and we walked down the block to my place. Gloria wanted to change. I told them to just grab a change of clothes. "There are showers there. You're going to be wandering around in the buff so there's no point."

Gloria whined, "But I want to try on my new clothes."

I smiled. "There's always tonight."

Gloria pretended to pout but relented. We left the bags and walked back down the street and took a right and then a left onto Keizersgracht. We followed the canal for awhile, casually joking around. K. D. and Gloria were wide-eyed, taking in the sights, the well-dressed bikers whistling and singing as they rode by, the men in suits talking into their bluetooth devices, the children running hard, screaming and laughing, chasing each other down the street, taunting pedestrians and cycllists both. We passed couples walking hand-in-hand, looking up moon-eyed at the sun-dappled emerald green leaves providing a soft-lit canopy next to the mansions, stately and grand, shouldering either side of the canal. As we snaked further into the center of the city we passed a gaggle of Japanese tourists clicking cameras like mice pounding a lever for cheese who were posing for pictures in front of every street lamp, Dutch-language sign, and canal bridge in sight.

Almost everyone we passed, all the Dutch at least, were tall, fit, well-dressed, and beautiful. Mostly young or middle-aged. Every now and then an elderly man or woman walked by, each one walking gracefully, face relaxed, eyes alive with a depth that said, "I've lived my life in the practice of appreciation." I could feel my lungs expanding as I breathed in the lightness of being all around me. I kept wondering if the Son of Flubber was tinkering with the physics, if everyone might start floating up into the air.

It's not like I've ever run into Mother Goose or The Invisible Man, but there are some strange characters in Amsterdam. Shamans, mystics, warlocks, Satanists, krishnas, global adventurers, artists, and on it goes. I met a guy at an afterparty one night who juggled chainsaws as a busker. He told me he got into the trade when he was fifteen years old. He had illegally crossed the Bulgarian border and traveled all the way to Amsterdam. He said he met a guy who put him up in exchange for sex. He got free drugs and booze, too. He started partying heavily, met some street performers, and eventually mentored under an old vet. Again, in exchange for sex.

Amsterdam's not all lollipops and Mary Poppins. Still, it's mostly what you make of it. If you want to juggle chainsaws to get by then you juggle chainsaws. If you want to dreamily stroll along canals and watch the smiling faces of beautiful people singing as they elegantly bicycle past you then go that route. Whatever you want, man. However you want to live your life.

"So, Michael, what made you decide to move to Amsterdam?"

I looked around me. "Isn't it obvious?"

Gloria and K. D. looked around. They smiled. "Still, what drew you to Amsterdam in the first place?"

"I flew here about a decade ago on my first trip through Europe. I was married, it was our honeymoon. The flight into Amsterdam was cheap and we were doing a month-long trip around Europe anyway so it didn't matter where we started. I doubt we would have traveled here at all if it hadn't been for the cheap flight. But as soon as I walked out of Centraal Station I was blown away. Actually, even Schiphol blew me away. Just wandering around a technologically advanced airport with all sorts of lit-up yellow signs with strange words like "vertrek" or "gesloten." I had never been outside the U.S. before that trip. Well, except Mexico. The poverty there was overwhelming. The Dutch, though? They seemed technologically advanced and wealthy. I'd always believed the mantra that the U.S. is 'the best' when it comes to, well, everything. Not because I was gullible. I just had no other country other than Mexico to compare to the U.S. Well, turns out, some countries are light years ahead of the U.S. in certain ways."

"Such as?"

"Happiness. Hey, this is it. Let's pick up this discussion later. We're heading into a spa. Time to leave the mind and enter the body."

Opening Act

I opened for a band once. It wasn't planned. A friend, a guitarist, asked me if I'd do it. No notice for me, but I said okay. I asked him what I should say. He said it didn't matter. I asked,

"What if I want to tell a story about the U.S. military using geese as weapons of mass destruction in Afghanistan?"

"Whatever, man. We just want someone to keep the crowd entertained or at least occupied in some way while we get set up. It should only be a few minutes."

"There's a lot of people here, but ... okay, what the hell."

So, after talking with the band for awhile they got the go-ahead to get started. They set me up with a microphone on a stand and I looked out over a crowd of a couple hundred people. I guess. It could have been more or less. I didn't do a head-count. It was a lot of people. I was just hoping to relax and listen to some music.

But, I was in a good mood so I said right away

"Hello, I'm Michael and I am not in the band. I wanted to be in the band, but they have taste ... and talent. Look, they're musicians. They're skilled. They're artists. I'm a hack. I've got nothing to offer at all.

Well, that's not entirely true. I had one idea. It was the one idea I pitched to them. Just a little while ago, in fact. They shot it down, but I'm going to tell you about it anyway just to show you how fucking smart these assholes are.

See, I wanted to come out here and front for them, open with some BLAMMO and rock this place. I wanted to ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!!!!!! I was going to come out screaming like the half-wit mutant offspring of Ronnie James Dio and Bruce Dickinson, blasting you with thump-de-da-thump-de-da-thump-de-da-thuuuuu-UMP-de-da-the-thump-thump-de-da-thump-de-da-thump-de-da--

Oh, when the fire started rising
To the platelets in the STARRRRRS
The mighty wind of Venus
Accompanied by chocolate BARRRRRS
Foretold the wisdom of the ages:
CHICKS DIG GUYS WHO PLAY GUITARRRRRS!!!!!!!
Oh, YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAA ... UH!

But, no, they rejected the idea. Not because I have a horrible voice. Not because the lyrics suck. Both good reasons, but instead they rejected my idea because it elevated one member of their trio above the others. Egalitarians, these fuckers.

I should have added this verse:

But those chicks I like the best
The ones better than ALLLLLLL the rest
Are the ones who blow the bassists
While the drummers cum on their TITS! YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! WHOOOO!

Yeah, so here are the guys who didn't want me to sing that song ... What? ... ... You're not ready? Keep going? ... Keep going?

Look, people, I've got nothing. That was it. I was at a theater earlier today crying while watching live feeds of seals being clubbed to death. I'm emotionally exhausted. I want to go home. I want you to cuddle with me later. No, not you. You're too hairy. And you're a man. I was talking about your girlfriend or wife or mistress or ... the woman sitting next to you. Yeah, her. Your wife? Yeah.

Hey, look, nothing against you, pal. If I was into men, sure, but I'm not. I will sleep with your wife, though. You're laughing right now, I know, but I'm actually telling you what I'm going to be doing soon. Not tonight. I've got other plans. I was thinking next Tuesday. Could you run a few extra errands between, say, six and ten p.m.? I haven't had sex with your wife before--first time I've ever seen her--so I'd like a little time to get to know her first, flirt a little, tease, fool around. You know, have fun for awhile before getting really nasty for a good hour or so.

Wait outside your front door around ten p.m. I'll exit there and then make out with your wife while you watch. She'll beg me to stay, but I will leave and never see either of you again. Your wife will turn to you and say "Looking at you makes me want to puke." Your relationship will be over. She will fall in love with many men and women throughout her life and remain sexually satisfied most of her days until she dies from the intensity of an orgasm while being fucked by a dildo with a head shaped into a likeness of Barack Obama.

You, on the other hand, will never again find love. You will live for decades in increasingly excruciating existential agony while physically deteriorating organ by organ until both your body and mind are sludge. You'll still feel yourself as yourself, but unable to move, unable to speak, a struggle to breath, no way to communicate, until madness overtakes you. Oh, the horror, man!

I am so sorry! See, this is why it sucks to be able to predict the future. I mean, I really doubt I'm going to enjoy fucking your wife as much as I would have had I not known that your life was going to end up like that. I hate this, but as far as I can tell there is no way to change things. I mean, my ability to see the future is flawless. I don't see stuff and then nothing happens. I see what happens before it happens, you know? I'm sorry, I'm just a messenger. A reporter, I guess, giving you the current news about future events.

You can't even kill yourself, dude. I mean, you literally have decades of growing existential terror ahead of you and a complete body/mind breakdown near the end of your life. I've seen thousands of future deaths and yours is, by far, the most excruciating. No one deserves what you are going to experience. It's just not right. I'm so sorry. There's just nothing that can be done.

Well, it looks like the band is ready to play. Enjoy the music, folks. The rest of your lives look great. It's just that one dude who is really screwed. Oh, there is some short-term good news for you tonight, man. You're going to have a really great time listening to the band, your wife is going to fuck you like an animal later, and you're going to wake up to breakfast in bed. Things don't start going bad until next Tuesday. You got a kick-ass four-day weekend ahead you, man! Celebrate!"

how to paint

I suppose with everyone there is a past. I was painting awhile ago, revisiting a technique that I was working on when I was living in Amsterdam. I had started painting not to develop the skill, not to create anything, not to someday show my paintings anywhere to anyone. I started painting only because I had found drawing a way to focus my attention whenever floating a little farther past beyond than I wanted to float at any particular time. A way of reorienting my perception in line with the physical world in some way.

The reason it was effective was because it required active, participative decision making. I figured if drawing required some concentration then a more complex creative form such as painting would be even more involving. It was. It is. There's the added complexity of color added to the mix and making decisions about what colors look good together in particular combinations and how to apply the paint in a way that creates particular effects. Early on, I didn't make value judgments in any conceptual manner. Truth is I couldn't. Even if I had wanted to I wouldn't have known how. Not right away.

What I was beginning to realize was that I was, in a way, creating an entirely new perceptual understanding of my sensory experience of space and time. A language, in a way. A visual language ... created by physical movement of the torso, the arms and hands using a foreign substance. I focused on more than just my torso, though. I felt my body cramping and creaking when it was in an awkward position, out of alignment. So I focused on my core, on the position of my legs, on my posture, on the way I moved my arms, on the way I turned my wrist, on the way I grasped my brush.

Each decision told a story of visual color, but for me I also saw what a particular color looked like when applied with a particular brush. Or putty knife. Or screwdriver. Or fork. Or whatever I grabbed to apply or manipulate paint and what a series of applications looked like with this movement or that from this position or that. It just kept going and going, endless explorations into this consideration then that then that then that then that and then back again to the second that and then the third and then the second second and then a new that ... jazz.

I saw in the activity freedom, creativity. Decision making. Self-direction. Self-creation. You are what you do, right? At a certain point, I shifted from nonconceptual painting to an exploration on the fringe of storytelling. Optical illusions, colorful deceptions. All the makings of movements that never quite became definitive. In between. Transitory moments, the genesis of conceptualizations. I was paying attention to how I conceptualized, what the process was for me. I tweaked it now and then. Experimented with the process. Constructivism. I was scaffolding, really.

But without a predetermined outcome. Patternless ... until a pattern began to emerge. And then I tried teasing out whatever might be within while trying to stop to preserve possibilities. Unfinished. Perpetual creation. No ending. Just the application of layer after layer of paint. Until passing out, face planted firmly on wet canvas.

I was out one night a week or so after that. I had touched up the painting and went with what was there. I did what I could. It was unfinished but in an odd state of development. Chaotic but somehow deeply appealing. I met a couple out that night, young tourists passing through Amsterdam. I was at a coffeeshop well off the beaten path so it was unusual to see overnighters. They were interesting, though. Americans, but with unusual points of view. Not easy to categorize.

Anyway, after talking for awhile they said they wanted to shroom, but didn't feel comfortable being out in the city on their own because they didn't know it at all. Smart. They asked me if I'd sort of act as a guide. I said sure, whatever. I figured I could show them a few quieter, more softly lit spots toward the south. Somewhere to roam without roaming too far from my digs ... just in case there was a need to settle during a freakout.

I took them to a smart shop and suggested a low-to-mid grade. We each ate a dose ... gradually. Over an hour, probably. Just wandering about here and there with no purpose, no destination. Just sensory explorers moving our bodies between canals and gabled mansions on cobblestone streets and over seventeenth century bridges. The air had a just-rained smell. It was crisp, but not cold. Almost cozy with our jackets.

"It is almost cozy with our jackets!" Apparently I was talking out loud. For how long? The shrooms were working their magic. We hung out in a park for awhile, Gloria twirled and sang for a long time. K. D. felt the grass, then lied down on top of it while apologizing to it, and stared at the starlit sky without saying a word. I watched one and then the other, back and forth, all the while trying to avoid consideration of the purpose of fingernails.

K. D. sat up. He asked me if we could go to my place so that he could use a bathroom. I told him he should pee in some bushes. He said, no, I don't have to pee. Oh. ... Oh.

So, we went back to my place. It took some time. Gloria kept turning to cross every bridge we passed because she wanted to see what everything looked like while standing at it apex. I told her, repeatedly, that it probably looked pretty similar, that K. D. was in bad shape--and he was. He was moaning and groaning the whole way. I was certain he would shit his pants, but he somehow managed to make it. In spite of Gloria, who insisted every time I pleaded my case that the view was different and then cackled like a cartoon hyena stealing a meal from a lion.

When we got back to my place, K. D. ran into the bathroom and stayed in there for over an hour. Every once in awhile there was a yelp or a weird squawk, an occasional declaration of a new discovery like "Birds don't have fingers!" followed by several "wows." Gloria, for her part, stripped off her clothes and put on an apron she found in the kitchen. She examined the contents of drawers while I put on some music and made a batch of cocktails.

After a time, K. D. came out of the bathroom. Gloria and I were in the kitchen talking about how bright the color blue might really be under perfect conditions when we heard a shriek. "No, no, no, no, no, no! Take it away! I don't want that. Not right now. No! It's too much!"

Gloria and I ran out to the living room. K. D. was curled up on the floor in a corner looking up at the wall to our right. He pointed. "I'm so scared." I turned to look. It was my painting hanging on the wall. I got lost in it pretty quickly. There were so many colors! They were all running next to each other, into each other, over each other, layer after layer, a heap of bubbling breathing from the wall, heaving and collapsing. Each blurb or blotch or blend or blaze of color a living thing, an independent entity trying desperately to remain individuated, to not become lost in the larger composition, to be more than just a part making a whole. But each one of them was simply a distinctive color located in a particular place trying to break free and go elsewhere, become something other than what each one of them was, all to no end, each indefinitely stuck being only what it was: color frozen in the last moment of struggle to become meaningful in a painting lacking conceptual purpose.

I looked at Gloria. Her mouth was agape. Her eyes were filled with tears. "It's endless. It's so beautiful, but it never gets anywhere."

I replied, "It doesn't become anything."

K. D. whispered, "It hates me."

"I've never tried to paint," said Gloria.

That surprised me. "Never? Not even as a little girl?"

"No. Never."

"Do you want to try?"

Gloria turned slowly to look at me. She had a creepy look in her eyes. "No. I think I just like looking at paintings. I don't think I should try something I haven't tried before when I just want to look."

"Okay."

Gloria turned back to the painting and stared at it. She smiled.

I woke up the next day on the couch. I sat up, disoriented. I saw jeans, a shirt, and women's undies on the floor near the kitchen. I remembered Gloria and K. D. I looked over at the corner of the living room and saw K. D. sleeping there. I rubbed my eyes and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table. One left. I sat back and lit it. I thought about the night before for a second and decided to check the bedroom to see if Gloria was there. She was lying naked on top of the blankets. I grabbed a blanket from the closet and covered her.

I went to the kitchen to make some coffee. I wondered what else happened the night before. I still couldn't remember. It didn't matter. I felt surprisingly good. Refreshed even. I opened the windows in all the rooms. It was a beautiful spring day. Sunshine and warmth. A nice breeze to keep it cool.

The apartment I was renting was fully furnished and loaded with goodies. I began the process of making Italian espresso with high-end restaurant-grade technology. The process actually required a bit of finesse, some actual skill. Thinking my way through it with rapt attention became a sort of zen experience. A sense of order and balance, a process that produced a richly rewarding result. But I had begun to love the process itself and sometimes made an espresso that I poured into the sink after finishing just because I wanted the pleasure of thinking and moving my body in that way just as a means to focus my attention on the world in an ordered, sequential fashion. Constructing a structure, a purpose for living.

What is alarming about much contemporary culture is that these everyday processes we live over and over again comprise our identity. But it's not just the acts themselves, but our attitude toward them, the motivations pushing each one of us toward particular decisions to repeat the same sequences of actions over and over again. We don't think of our routines as rituals very often, not in the U.S., but they are. And yet, we hold our rituals in low esteem. We dream of futures with more glamorous rituals, of opportunities for real freedom, for power even, to make decisions we imagine might fulfill longings, whatever angst is knotting those muscles in your neck, your shoulders, your lower back, or your calves. Dreams of being carefree begin and end in the body. And, yes, in relation to the surrounding environment.

I finished making the first espresso. I took the small cup on a saucer to K. D. I nudged him lightly. He groaned and turned his head up toward me. "Where am I?" I smiled at him for a moment and held out the saucer. He sat up and took it from me. "Thank you." I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. I took it to K. D. and told him that Gloria was asleep in the bedroom. I went back to the kitchen to make more coffee.

Gloria walked into the kitchen as I prepared the French press. She was wearing one of my sweatshirts. It was long on her, about mid-thigh. She yawned while she walked up to me then put her arms around me and squeezed very tight. "I had so much fun last night. Thank you."

"How's K. D. feeling?"

"He's okay. Tired. He was wondering if he could use the shower."

"Of course. There are towels in the chest next to the bathroom door. The hot water takes about half a minute to kick in but when it does it's really hot so tell him to be careful."

"Okay. Thanks."

I made the coffee and took it out to the living room along with a plate of gingerbread cookies.

"You are amazing. Thank you."

"I'm enjoying myself. I'm glad you're happy."

"Oh, very happy. Unbelievably happy, really. Everything inside me is warm. Radiating heat, actually. Everything is expanding. With every breath."

"That's beautiful."

Gloria smiled and poured some of the cream I'd brought out. She took a sip. "Delicious. I feel so cozy."

"Gezellig."

"What?"

"It's the Dutch equivalent. It means more than just cozy, but it's close. A feeling of warmth, of sharing good company, an inviting environment."

"That's the best of life."

"I agree. The Dutch seem to agree as well."

"Yeah, but I don't think just anyone would have shepherded us around the city and allowed us to sleep in their house, let alone make coffee for us in the morning."

"I guarantee you that if any Dutch person or family hosted you overnight that they'd make you coffee in the morning. Or at least stroll with you to a nearby cafe for a cup. But, yeah, I doubt you'd meet a ton of people here or anywhere else who'd have enjoyed that type of night with you."

"Why did you, by the way?"

"I was having fun. You guys seemed cool, like you were up for a little adventure."

"Yeah. So, what are you doing today?"

"Really?"

"Well, we don't have to get back on the train today. We had an idea of where we wanted to go on this trip, but we have Eurail passes and no reservations elsewhere so we can actually stay as long as we want. Well, for two weeks, anyway. I mean, we will be moving on to other countries, but we can wait another day. Or two even."

She paused.

"Oh, shit! That sounds horrible! I didn't mean to suggest that you should guide us around or put us up for a couple more days!"

I laughed. "I didn't take it that way, at all. I understand what you meant."

"Thanks. I was just excited about staying a little longer. This is such a great city! It's so beautiful and romantic and breathtaking and inspiring! And really, really free."

"It's a city structured for living. For living well. Every day. Every day. It's damn close to heaven. Especially if you have money. But even if you don't."

"So, you're American but you live here? What do you do?"

"What I do and what I have done are not always the same thing. I have done many things, I do what I'm doing right now, and I will do many more things."

Gloria laughed. "Are you still tripping? Did you eat more shrooms this morning?"

I laughed, too. K. D. came out of the bedroom. He had already showered and changed. His clothes. And in other ways, possibly. He sat on the chair across from me and grabbed the coffee I'd made. Steam was still rising from it so it was still somewhat hot.

"Thanks for letting me use your shower. And for the coffee."

"No problem."

"What do you think about staying another day or two here, K.?"

"Really?" K. D. raised his eyebrows a little and smiled as he considered the possibility. "I mean, yeah. Hell yeah! I don't want to put you out, though, Michael."

"Yeah, we really don't."

"I understand. Um, I mean..." I started to think a little. I didn't really have any plans over the next couple of days. I was only planning on spending some time in museums, writing at cafes, and doing some painting in the evenings over the next few days. The beauty of Amsterdam is that plans are ridiculous. It's best not to make plans because what happens in the city organically is usually more intriguing and exhilarating than any itinerary that removes the moment-to-moment engaging urgency of decision making for days or weeks on end. Sure, there are special events, but everyday life in and throughout Amsterdam is usually better than any particular planned event. No one thing is essential and yet it's the totality of the choices accessible and available that makes the city so invigorating, so full of possibility. The city begs for spontaneous participation. Everything is alluring and thus it compels people to shake out the cobwebs from their awareness. If you don't, you might miss something!

"We can pay you, you know?"

"No, no. You don't need to do that, K. D. I appreciate the gesture, but that's not what I'm about."

"I didn't mean to imply that at all."

"Relax. It's not a big deal. I didn't take it that way, at all. That slice of American thinking is hard to escape."

"American thinking?"

"Yeah. The idea that generosity and hospitality--decency--come with price tags attached. No, it's the way human beings choose to treat one another, as individuals enjoying one another's presence. And, as such, providing each with opportunities to create, collaborate, and share."

"That's beautiful," said Gloria.

"Yeah, it is," added K. D. "So, if we did stay, what would you suggest doing?"

"Well, I need to run a few errands this afternoon. If you're exhausted and need to sleep you can stay here. Otherwise, you could go for a walk and explore some neighborhoods, check out a museum, rent bikes, relax at a coffeeshop or a cafe and watch the people passing by, see what you see."

We all agreed to meet back at the cafe at the end of my block around 15:00. Gloria took a shower and got ready to go. K. D. and I relaxed and enjoyed our coffee. He mentioned how much fun he'd had the night before, but how the painting had freaked him out. I asked him what about it had scared him so much?

"It was just so busy with color. Crazy, energetic movements. I could feel the chaos of movement jumping out of it. It's hilarious now, but I thought it wanted to consume me in some way. Just wipe me out. Not physically, but emotionally. Or maybe intellectually. I don't know, but whatever it was I didn't want to let go of myself and I was afraid if I kept looking at it that I might forget ... everything. It scared the shit out of me."

"Wow. That's ... brutal."

"I know. But it was good. I hadn't realized how tightly I was holding on to a particular sense of myself as I had been."

"Wonderful."

"I know. I feel much more at ease today. I haven't been this relaxed in a long time. That was the whole point of this trip through Europe, you know? To put the past behind and reinvigorate our lives. Hell, yesterday was the first full day of our vacation and, boom, I'm in the zone. I don't think that would have been the case if we hadn't met you."

"Who knows. I'm sure you would have relaxed at some point. Whatever would have happened if you hadn't met me never will now so you'll never know. I never would have either way so what can i say. I was just living my life, too, and you certainly created the conditions for a day I wouldn't have otherwise enjoyed. Look, as much as this city has to offer aesthetically and in terms of intriguing events, this place is about the people. The setting enhances life but it's the lives themselves that create the play. And, as everyone knows, the play's the thing."

"Or, in my case, the painting's the thing."

"Yeah, painting does it for me, too. Doesn't seem to matter whether it's a noun or a verb, either."

Happy Birthday To Me

I was walking downtown yesterday and I saw an elderly homeless man missing most of a leg sitting on a sidewalk leaning against a brick building weeping while being showered with rose petals by a radiantly beautiful lily white young woman with long flowing auburn hair and a silky light blue dress dancing sensuously while singing about sunshine and love. I stopped about a block away, once I realized what I was seeing, and just watched. The man doubled over, sobbing, his shoulders heaving and his head shaking. Excruciating emotional suffering. The woman carefree, in love with life, sharing her joy in a completely self-absorbed manner, oblivious to the man's reception of her zeal.

But there was no reception. Two complete strangers living entirely different lives at the same moment who just happen to be expressing their inner selves within a foot or two of one another. It wouldn't seem quite so unusual to imagine the same two individuals occupying neighboring apartments just down the block doing the same thing (or capturing the spirit in a similar form) while alone in the privacy of their homes. But it was unusual to see such a public exhibition of self-absorbed oblivion while seemingly engaged with one another. Rose petal showers from beautiful strangers don't typically result in uncontrollable outbursts of despair, either.

But, maybe I'm wrong. So far in life, it's the only response to being showered with rose petals on a busy street that I've ever witnessed. Or heard about. Or read about. So, a first. Of sorts. To an extent, I'd like to see what happens with a larger sample. In other words, I'd like to ask beautiful young women around the world to travel to downtown Portland, dress in silky slinky dresses, and let rose petals snow on pedestrians of all stripes. Dance sensuously. Sing of sunshine and love. Your love of sunshine. The sunshine of your love. The love of your sunshine. Your sunshine of love.

Creating events, observing them, focusing on randomly selected details, and then measuring them in some capacity under as many variable circumstances with as many different subjects as possible. For the purpose of ... ?

That was generally what I was thinking as I watched this ... performance. I suppose it was a performance. But it also seemed very real, unplanned. Authentic. Even if absurd. Somehow it was also the most accurate representation of the totality of the potential of human relationships I'd ever encountered. In that one act, it told the story of human history. And the story of the future of humanity. An eternal return of myopia, self-absorption, disconnection, and misunderstanding. Could be sorrow or bliss, though. Or anything in between. Or anything beyond.

I was talking with a friend just a few hours ago, a guy I hadn't seen in a long time, but a good friend going back a decade. What was interesting was how each of us began talking with the present versions of our selves as if the other was a versions of a self past. I started to notice it at a certain point when a reference was made to something that took me back to a state of being and a type of thinking from several years ago. Like a flash of lightning. Explosions of images, of "scenes" of past experiences visible through my inner eye, out of context from their narratives of the time, rapidly interpreted through the narrative of now, and ... both the past and the present changed. My perception of the past and the present changed. I realized I was I.a at the moment but the possible self my friend began talking with (before her realized I was not the same person at all) might have been I.y or I.stgwk. How many versions of "me" have there been thus far in life? There was no predictable path evident because there was no particular path to take that was anything other than a different version of the same life. So, personal preference is really all there is. And it's unpredictable. The decision to commit to x, y, or z occurs each moment and, thus, each moment is a different "me."

What is becoming clearer to me as I type this, though, is that most of the transitions in my perception of self occur when the past meets the present and, through the consideration of each from the point of view of either, a new conception emerges that contains elements of both, some traits being dominant and some recessive, some likely to flower under certain conditions and most likely to remain dormant unless activated for some reason or another. A birth. A new life. A new self being born into the world.

In that sense, today is my birthday. Happy birthday to me! I may celebrate by showering a stranger with rose petals.