Amsterdam Thirty-Six: Dutch Beauty

Damn, the Dutch are beautiful. Seriously. I was walking down Kerkstraat early afternoon and in five blocks I passed no less than three dozen women with whom I wanted to share eternity. I started counting after walking by maybe six women who had looks that would make a man crawl naked through glass just to kiss a toe. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, fuck, twelve, thirteen, fucking fuck, fourteen, fifteen … by twenty I was getting dizzy and by thirty I was inebriated. If I had reached forty I would have become belligerent and ripped off my clothes screaming, “Please, I am hideous in comparison to you, give me your bodies, I need your flesh to renew my spirit, to give me life, to make me Dutch!”

Fortunately, I lost count. It’s impossible to remain coherent and thoughtful in the presence of unending beauty in streets filled with fashions of sensuality walking sexually as if doing so was the most natural thing in the world. That’s just it, it is the most natural thing in the world! It’s the rest of the civilized world that’s insanely unnatural. Well, there are other locations, beaches in the Caribbean, the sands of the Côte d'Azur, South Pacific Islands, Venice Beach, Miami Beach, the streets of Manhattan, and certainly more. But in Amsterdam it was different because in those other locations the attitude was “Yes, I am beautiful and you’re not.” Amsterdam? No evidence of such thoughts one way or the other. More of a sense of “What is beautiful? Why would I waste my time wondering about such things? I am Dutch and no one ever introduced me to such ridiculous notions.”

Of course, that’s simplifying and distorting reality. Just a feeling I had walking by these beautiful women—and men! Jesus, Dutch men are handsome and beautiful in their own right. In a way, I felt my relative averageness (average in other locales, anyway) was so rare that it was a type of exquisite beauty in its own right, like Dutch men and women might turn and look, pulling down their shades to gape and gasp. “Did you see him? Oh my, he’s so … unnaturally not beautiful and almost completely absent externalized sexuality. That’s so hot. Did you know non-sexy beings existed? I didn’t, either. I don’t know why, but I’m incredibly turned on by his extraordinary blandness.”

I wondered, though, how there could be so many heavenly women in Amsterdam. Yes, it was a city of designers, fashionistas and models, actors and actresses, thinkers and writers, filmmakers, painters, sculptors, performance artists, and creative types of all stripes. No matter the looks, the spirit beneath was alive and the liveliness enhanced physical beauty no matter the body type or facial configuration. The physical beauty was as much the result of a spirit of beauty anything else … except for those fucking Dutch genes. I passed one woman dressed to the nines who seemed to have her nose in the air, snobbish and better-than, and just as I was about to say, “Take that shit back to New York, bitch,” I noticed she simply had perfect posture. She wasn’t snobbish; her hips, back, neck, and jaw were simply designed to be that way. If I had done yoga twelve hours per day from the time I was two years old I still wouldn’t be able to attain such impeccable posture. She probably ate Twinkies all day and refused to exercise except for short walks around the neighborhood. “Why would I eat healthy and workout? I’m Dutch, I don’t have to do those silly things to look this way.”

I typically didn’t believe in God, but in Amsterdam I suddenly did. Why did God bless the Dutch in this way? It was as if God had saved up physical beauty and realized, when he got to the Dutch, that he was going to have a massive surplus so he simply dumped all the stardust he had over the men and women of Holland and said, “You’re welcome.” Maybe the Dutch Eve never ate the apple. In fairness, not every one of the women I passed were Dutch. Amsterdam was an international city and I had once read a statistic that less than fifty percent of Amsterdam was Dutch-born. But in this area of the city, well, I didn’t know what the ratio was. Did I care? No. I was merely expressing my gratitude.

My neighborhood was upscale and there were definitely models who lived in the area. Not models posing for billboard ads, but runway models. It was strange living in such an area. It wasn’t exclusively filled with models and actors, not exclusively upscale; there were regular folks abounding as well. It was an eclectic mix as it was everywhere in Amsterdam. Still, I noticed the difference in this neighborhood compared to the Plantage. One of the things that struck me about these beautiful women and men was that they rode their beat-up old bikes carrying shopping bags and groceries just like everyone else. They were just … people. Again, the American propaganda that had infected my brain came to the surface and I realized that these particular ideas about beauty and sexuality were so ingrained that even being conscious of them wasn’t going to be enough to free myself from them in order to see these men and women in an entirely different way. I wondered what it would be like to look at the world through Dutch eyes. Would I ever be able to know, especially after living into my mid-thirties in the United States? Could I break down the mind diseases that had infected me from overexposure to American narratives of beauty and sexuality?

I could try to make progress even if I could never eradicate the ideas and beliefs entirely. Shrooms would be most effective in that process. A shame psychology hadn’t recognized just how powerful psychedelics were at breaking down thought structures to enable the creation of new ways of thinking. It was not that the environment played no role while shrooming, but that the environment didn’t own control. Instead, ways of thinking were developed in a relational dance, the shrooms breaking down defenses against change, obliterating belief structures, challenging conceptions, annihilating the possibility of hiding from one’s self.

This was my reason for walking down Kerkstraat. I was going to a smart shop. The beauty of the women and men on the way stunned me, perhaps because it was sunny and warmer and, thus, people were dressed in somewhat more revealing winter clothes. Somehow, though, men and women found ways to look sexy in coats, scarves, and boots, all stylish and colorful, yes, but no skin except the face and possibly hands. Perhaps I was more turned on by fashion or style than I ever realized. Maybe I had missed my calling and should have become a fashion designer. 

I passed Spiegelstraat and I could all but see Leidseplein in the distance. When I walked into Conscious Dreams there was yet another beauty behind the counter. There were two beauties, actually, one female and one male. Dutch men, damn, they are hot, too. God blessed both sexes in The Netherlands. Really, God blessed the world by creating the Dutch. That had been my attitude toward the people since I first disembarked from Schiphol in 1998. I didn’t believe God existed except when I was in Amsterdam. God certainly didn’t exist anywhere else on Earth. God just hung out in Amsterdam and let the rest of the world go to shit. Hard to blame God for that; I didn’t want to leave Holland, either. The rest of the world was grotesque. I figured it was probably easier to gain legal residency as God. Maybe if I prayed … no, Americans prayed all the time and the United States was fucked up beyond belief. Clearly I had done something right because I was in Amsterdam. Pretty cool to hang out in heaven with God. If I had sinned more often I might have found Amsterdam earlier in life.

I walked up to the counter and put my tongue back in my mouth. The young woman working was wearing fuzzy white cashmere and her breasts softly pressed against her sweater like fist-sized snow globes. Her eyes were such a soft blue they appeared to be silver. Her hair was whiter than it was blonde. I stared at her in wonderment. She continued to smile, her white teeth gleaming brightly at me. I said, “Hubbledy bubble cuppa da bubba shuzzy fizzle.” Or something like that. Whatever I said sounded like gibberish to me. Somehow she understood because she grabbed a dose of Ecuadorian and another of Hawaiian. “My eyes are blue moonstone and my fragrance makes bunnies dance.” I knew this meant she wanted me to pay. I pulled out my wallet and handed her a credit card. I said, “Take whatever you want. I just want to look at you forever.” She smiled and swiped the card. Hell, maybe she was okay with me looking at her indefinitely. I tried to smile but the best I could do was hold myself steady so I wouldn’t fall over. My knees were rubber bands.

The young man walked over after helping a customer. He bagged my shrooms and looked up at me, his wavy auburn hair letting me know it was okay to adore him. He was wearing something hip but I couldn’t tell what because his eyes were even more dazzling than hers, a type of blue that appears only in the sky above the Swiss Alps during the spring. I felt like the whole world might melt from their combined glow. I jabbered, “Fleh flah blub glub ishle shish” then knelt before the glass-encased altar to kiss the ground. I rose and bowed to them for kindly allowing me to be in their presence then I ducked my head out the door. I gulped in deep breaths of air. “My God. Oh my God.” I repeated the mantra over and over as I stood outside. A woman passing me thought I was a doorman and seemed pissed that I wouldn’t open the door for her. I realized I was blocking the entrance and took a few steps out of the way, leaning against the wall of the building to collect myself.

I walked home passing more beautiful men and women. My smile swallowed my entire body and then swallowed it again and again and again, a process of purification eliminating every remnant of self-dissatisfaction that might impede my appreciation of beauty and beauty’s appreciation of my appreciation. The process evidently worked because most of the godly men and women I passed smiled back at me. Everywhere there were smiles, the street itself was a smile, and every frown was swallowed by smiles until the frowns disappeared and radiated smiles even more vibrant than all the others. All the smiles combined to form one giant smile over the city. The smile seemed to be tanning itself in the sunshine. Satellite images were probably viewed by NASA with everyone wondering what the fuck was happening in Amsterdam. Hopefully, the United States wouldn’t invade to eradicate the threat of a happiness outbreak that could infect the entire planet. Smiling happiness wasn’t good for the war business.

As I crossed Utrechtsestraat, I waved at the bakery. Not at anyone in particular, just the bakery itself. It waved back as far as I could tell. When I was a few buildings away from my apartment I skipped and whistled. A young man cycling past smiled and gave me a thumbs up. He probably thought he had seen the happiest leprechaun in the city. Perhaps he had.

I unlocked the street entrance, walked upstairs, and unlocked the door to my apartment. I waltzed inside to the kitchen and put the Hawaiian shrooms in the fridge. I left the Ecuadorians out because I wanted to consume them first. I wasn’t sure if I would do both doses, but given my mood it was possible. I opened one of the living room windows and shouted, “Today is the greatest day ever!” There was a group of two women and three men walking by my apartment. A couple of them pumped their fists in the air and yelled, “Yeah!” while the rest of them laughed. I left the window open and sat down on the couch. I grabbed my pack of smokes and noticed I only had five left. I figured, oh well, if that’s not enough then so be it. I took one out, lit it, and inhaled. I blew smoke rings out the window.

After my cigarette I made some pasta. It was around four and I wanted to start shrooming early. I had a bottle of Floreffe with my meal. I ate dinner at the coffee table surrounded by shrooming accessories: Laptop, writing pad, drawing pad with some pens and colored pencils, and of course my pipe and ganja. I was getting low, but I had enough left. As I sat there eating pasta, though, I thought I might venture out while shrooming. That was a decision to be made later. I ate the Ecuadorians as I finished my pasta and grabbed another beer. I had currents of electricity running through me even though I hadn’t had caffeine all day; it was a natural high created by the day’s beauty, the city itself, and leftover ebullience from dinner with Anabel’s family.

Tonight’s trip had no preconceived purpose. It was neither recreational nor visionary. It … just … was. When I heard the first echo of the shrooms whispering, I said, “Hello, how are you? I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I’m going to make you feel at home in my body tonight. There will be no alienation, you won’t miss your mommy, and no one is going to hurt you. We’re going to have an experience.”

I sat back against the couch and did nothing for an indefinite amount of time. Verbal thought ended. I adopted a lotus position and looked about the room without moving my head. Breathing. Sounds through the window became animated as beings floating about the room. Horns honking outside came through the window in the form of giant assholes blowing rancid noise throughout the apartment. A teacher writing gibberish on a white board tried teaching me Dutch as voices from the street filled the room. Scooters revving their engines broke all the glass in the apartment, destroying the coffee table and exploding the case of figurines against the far wall. How rude.

The fragrance of beer misted through the air. The glass-topped coffee table had fixed itself. I reached for the bottle and watched with wonder as my arm extended. I gasped as my fingers clasped the neck of the bottle. A series of muscles flexed and my arm and hand raised with the bottle. I wasn’t sure if I was lifting it or it was lifting me. Maybe my muscles had been flexing to resist the bottle from being grabbed but weren't strong enough to stop it. As soon as my eyes had gone to the bottle, it controlled me, the object of my attention making me its object of attention. The bottle came to my lips, tilted my head, and liquid flowed into my mouth. The tilting stopped and the liquid sat in my mouth as it invaded my tongue.

Bitter sweetness. The combination didn’t make any sense. Why would such a sensation come about from that experience? What is taste, anyway? Why is it so prevalent and yet ill-considered? I thought something as vibrant as taste deserved much more attention than I and the rest of the world seemed to be giving it. It was one of only five senses, one of five! With only five senses throughout the world, it seemed like each of them should have garnered far more attention than they had. Constitutions should be amended to elevate sensations to the highest status of importance. What good are property rights if things don’t taste good and smells are offensive? If my skin isn’t being tickled and caressed why would I care about interstate commerce? Rights to beautiful visions and sounds needed to be considered integral human rights, included in the Bill of Rights of the U.S. Constitution and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. How could the world, throughout history, be so vapid and confused that wonderful experiences of sensation were ignored as essentials for living well? There was no rhyme or reason.

As I swished the liquid, I continued to be confused by the flavor. I was surprised that such a taste existed. I opened my throat and allowed it to flow down. The taste continued after it was gone, a residue of beer on my tongue. The sensation was entirely different. It wasn’t that I disliked it. In fact, the ideas of "liking" and "disliking" seemed ridiculous. What is “like” and what is “dislike”? They made no sense, but less and less was making sense to me. I reached out my arm and placed the beer on the table. The sensations, everywhere, were decidedly strange and unfamiliar. Judgments couldn’t be made because there was nothing to judge against the newness. Why would I want to do so, anyway?

I tried being patient so I could observe. I changed my position and rose from the couch. I looked down at my legs and without telling them what to do they moved in the form of a “walk.” I wondered at this word. It meant something and its meaning was related to legs moving and arms swinging, the body moving through space from location to location in perpetual motion. How could four letters represent so much?! Fucking absurd! “No wonder we’re all fucked up. We think four or five letters can encapsulate a near infinity of activity.”

When I reached the refrigerator I stopped my body from “walk.” I opened the fridge noticing the brightness of light and the cacophony of objects squeezed tightly together. I saw a bottle of sparkling water and decided to remove it from captivity. I apologized to the rest of the objects which would remain. “Remember,” I said, “you’re all in this together. Lean on one another and you’ll make it out alive.” I looked at the Hawaiian dose and said, “Be well and comfort the others. They may not be as aware as you.”

I twisted the cap of the bottle. I felt the tension. It didn’t want to become detached. I twisted harder and it gave. “I’m sorry if that hurt you, but I want to transfer the fluid within you into the container of my body.” My body was, among many other things, a container for substances and fluids. But only particular substances and fluids. I couldn’t pour oil down my throat and expect to feel well. Water, on the other hand, was a necessity; if I did not pour water down my throat with regularity my body would break down. My body. Who is this “my” and how did it become “I” and “me”? I sat down on the kitchen floor and held the water bottle between my legs. “I can’t even think without ‘I,’ ‘me,’ and ‘my’ and yet I don’t know what they mean.” This was an epic mindfuck. There was no way to think about anything except from “my” point of view. “I can’t escape from this because there’s no ‘me’ without ‘I.’” I realized right away that I could get lost forever in this thought trap so I counteracted its continuance with physical movement. I drank the water and stood up.

Everything was different. There were remnants of the thoughts, but I laughed at them. “You can’t gain control because you need attention to direct … attention! Ha!” Maybe "I" was simply attentiveness rather than a static identity, an ongoing action that changed moment to moment. What if “attentiveness” was substituted for “I”? “Attentiveness grabbed the bottle. Attentiveness put the bottle down. Attentiveness looked up the woman’s skirt. Attentiveness indexed a book.” Hmmm. There might be something to this.

Attentiveness was about to put the cap into a receptacle called “trash.” “Trash” is a word that amply describes filth. But as attention focused on the cap attentiveness uttered, “You are not ‘trash.’ You are metallic. How is metallic filthy? You do not belong in a place with grime. You will be deposited in a place where things like peels of bananas will decompose. You will not decompose. You will corrode. That can’t be healthy for the Earth. A different attentiveness has made a grave mistake and all attention will pay the price. The attentiveness here pays the price now for knowing what will happen. Attentive awareness of reality has been tainted by knowing you will corrode the earth. You are not at fault. You are an object. You are inanimate and cannot make decisions. The attentive who make decisions, humans as they are known, have created this scenario. The attentiveness here is in a position to put you in a trash receptacle, but this entire sequence has been predetermined by institutions that never asked for the input of this attentiveness.”

It was tiring thinking this way even though it felt better. Practice, attentiveness would need practice being attentive to referring to itself as attentiveness. Attentiveness found a pad of paper and wrote a long note so that these ideas would not be forgotten. Attentiveness then allowed “I” to return. “Whew, that was amazing.” I deposited the cap and drank the water. I realized there was no escape from the institutionally created trash sequence. “I am trapped. The whole of humanity has been trapped by a global intergovernmental and multinational corporate scheme. ‘Throwing a cap away’ is just one tiny sequence in a vast relational field of similar sequential production and consumption events.” I took a deep breath. “They haven’t accounted for breathing except through air pollution. Otherwise, my breathing is still organic and unfettered by governmental and corporate action … for now.” I focused on breathing. I walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Once again, I assumed a lotus position. Inhale, exhale.