Amsterdam Fifty-One: Moonbeams and Catwalks

Sunshine, no wind, warm. I rode my bike through Vondelpark. Heaven was somewhere below me. Alive on a day like this? The world loved Amsterdam so much it gave each of us present this beautiful day. Good weather following a stretch of bad weather usually felt special. I smiled, whistled, and sang. A bout of laughter as I spied the silliness of a group dancing through the park. I experienced so many symptoms of peace that becoming a yogi by evening seemed entirely plausible.

How the park remained mostly green through the winter was a mystery to me. The lushness of color too textured for a painting, too drab for a photo. Green played like a remnant of freshness that refused to die, a cancer weakening color that by April would be in remission. Not that green dominated. Most trees were without leaves, gray more than brown. Mostly it was grass that retained the color, maybe some ivy on walls, or just a glint in my eye. It couldn’t be registered or explained by anyone who gave a damn. The only ones who knew the answers didn’t give a shit about life at all except as something to compartmentalize so that it could be erased from consideration ever again.

The sentiment that “everything you think and experience has already been thought and experienced” was believed only by those scared of living and they thrust forth the notion to vanquish the desire to live moments for their own sake, ugly attempts to funnel others down a path toward the belief that only “truly” original thoughts and experiences were worthwhile. Fatalistic nightmares of tired minds and blackened hearts spread like a plague to convince everyone to just give up, give in, stop thinking, stop creating, and stop living. Me? Let me have the green grass year after year; I promise I won’t become bored with the color no matter how unoriginal and predictable it is. Has anyone in love ever said, “I’m bored with these feelings of happiness and fulfillment; I feel wonderful all the time, absolutely thrilled to be alive and in love … oh, but it’s so unoriginal! Please, ye gods, let me feel a terror that has never before been felt.”? That’s not art; that’s stupidity.

I took Van Baerlestraat out of the park and turned on Pieter Cornelisz Hoofstraat, the swank-ass shopping street in Amsterdam. Emporio Armani. Hugo Boss. Azzuro. Gucci. Tiffany & Co. Louis Vuitton. Cartier. Marc Cain. These were companies that had philosophies. Well, they called their images and identities they wanted to project through clothing and other items philosophies, anyway. Marc Cain? "Marc Cain is a declaration of love to a woman. What kind of woman is she? She lives in the moment, is self-confident, open-minded, and curious. She loves being a woman and expresses herself by what she is wearing--naturally and as a matter of course." What the philosophy failed to mention yet was essential to it? "She is wealthy, spends money lavishly, and wants to declare to everyone, 'I am better than you.' She expresses herself through clothing because she has nothing to say. She's vacuous except for her condescension toward those who are not her.'' There were catwalks in the street of PC Hoofstraat on occasion and the runway models showed off designs to gawkers who wished they could be either as beautiful or as plastic as they were. Not all the runway models were lifeless stick figures, but when they were working they certainly were.

Despite my protestations, I had bought a Boss jacket on PC Hoofstraat in 2004, the very jacket I was wearing while riding my bike. I said, “Hey, jacket, say hello to your mother, she’s right there.”. When I'd had money I had been guilty of status-oriented materialism. It was a blip of time in my life, though, a matter of a few years ... a few years that cost me much of my soul and caused internal schisms between what I believed down deep and the surface me that really wasn't strong enough to stand on his own without giving a shit what the rest of the world thought. On the other hand, I did appreciate the high quality of the fabrics and designs. They were extraordinary and judged aesthetically without cultural or financial context they were beautiful. That jacket still looked like new and in that sense it was a good investment, not nearly as expensive as the price tag given that the style was timeless and the quality built to last. A matter of perspective as much as anything.

As I came out of the main shopping area I turned right down Hobbemastraat which curved into Paulus Potterstraat running along the Museumplein. I cut through one of the paths to Gabriel Metsustraat which curved into a new name then curved again to become Albert Cuypstraat. Fucking crazy-ass names everywhere. I was in De Pijp, a hip neighborhood south of the city center and the outer canals. I rode until I reached the Albert Cuyp Markt. I dismounted my bike and walked through the throngs of people wandering through the maze of the huge outdoor market selling everything from Indian spices to fine fabrics. It was difficult to wade through the masses with a bike so I turned down Van Der Helststraat to lock my bike. I walked back to the Markt to immerse in the bustle and browse.

The weather was perfect for a market day; clearly, everyone else thought so. Being in the midst of constant commotion electrified me. My spine tingled, a worm wiggling up and down the center of my back. The sensory stimuli carried me along: burning incense filled my nostrils, garments of every color and design shouted at my eyes, languages I did not know snaked into my ears, and bumps, slithers, slides, and pressure jockeyed my body. I was people watching while being in the midst of people watching me. A dozen eyes made contact with mine each moment. Every race and nationality presented themselves with smiles, frowns, exclamations, whispers, worry, surprise, frustration, and contentment. I was drunk on humanity.

I snuck into a tent to give my senses a break. Whew, intense. I tried to think if there was anything I wanted or needed. Nothing came to mind, but after I left the tent I saw a booth with scarves. Yes, a scarf! The wrong weather for it so maybe I could get it at a good price. I tried to haggle with the Indian fellow in the tent but I got nowhere. I spent five minutes creating numerous reasons why twenty percent should be knocked off, another minute trying to get ten percent dropped, and maybe ten seconds to save ten cents. He knew it was early February. The weather was unusually warm, maybe 60 degrees Fahrenheit. He knew damn well the cold would return soon. He finally acquiesced to a small discount as I was about to leave—there were so many other booths to visit. Still, I really liked the scarf.

Now while riding on cold, windy days I would be a bit more sheltered from the wind and cold. I draped the black wool scarf around my shoulders as I walked. The temperature disagreed with scarf-wearing, but I felt too good to care. I bumbled through the crowded lane while daydreaming about my scarf whipping in the wind while gliding down Kerkstraat. I would be the picture of the cold-weather cyclist in my black boots, black slacks, black jacket, black scarf and … I needed a black hat! I had the black lid with the yin-yang symbol, but the fabric was thin.

I kept my eyes open for a stall selling winter hats. I ran my hand over my hair and realized I needed a haircut. Well, I wanted a haircut, close to the scalp. I remembered seeing a place on Utrechtsestraat near the corner of Kerkstraat. Maybe later in the day. I kept wandering around until I saw a hat rack. I went into the stall, crammed my way inside, and found a black pull-down wool cap. I tried it on, but it didn’t fit. I tried three more until I found one that felt snug but not tight. It wasn’t expensive so I didn’t bother haggling. I walked out of the stall with hat in hand and scarf around my neck. A few beads of sweat on my forehead convinced me to remove the scarf.

The crush of humanity was wearing on me. Between the warmth of the sun and the heat of the crowd, I decided to leave. Problem: I had gotten turned around while wandering through the market. Which way was which? I made my way to the wall of a building on the sidewalk out of the street and away from the throng. From there I was able to tell which way to go. I walked back to Van Der Helststraat and saw my bike. I unlocked, wrapped the lock around the frame, and rode away. I didn’t have my trusty little backpack so I carried my hat and scarf in one hand while steering with the other. I turned right at Stadhouderskade then waited for the light to turn left at Van Woustraat across the Singelgracht to Frederiksplein. I leisurely rode through the park and came out on Utrechtsestraat. I couldn’t have planned the route better if I had known where I was going. I was following the day, the flow of traffic, and I wound up where I wanted to be. Ain’t life grand?

I pulled up to Houtman Kappers on the west side of Utrechtsestraat just north of Kerkstraat. I found a spot to lock my bike and walked inside. The salon was more upscale than I needed, but they had an opening from a cancellation and they pampered me while I was there. Expensive or not, I liked the place and the spirit of the middle-aged man and woman working. It was also convenient, just down the block and around the corner from me, too. Hell, everything just down the street and around the corner was stylish and expensive. The neighborhood did not price out cheap.

The owner, a wonderful blonde woman, gave me a wassen en knippen. I loved this word, knippen. The English translation was the inelegant cut. I wanted a knippen, damnit, not a cut! I joked with her about how much more melodic Dutch was compared to English. She seemed surprise to hear this, but I insisted that listening to Dutch without knowing what was being said sounded beautiful. The pronunciations were melodic and when the words flowed in good conversation the sing-song qualities made the language come to life. I was spoiled, perhaps, from listening to individuals like Daniel and Nina speak the language. Nina’s voice, in particular, was heavenly. I could listen to her speak Dutch endlessly. She spoke passionately and with conviction which resulted in clear enunciation. Combined with the natural tone of her voice and the melodious qualities inherent in much of the language, well, her speech enraptured me. She had a powerful presence as well, but that was true of the trio of Nina, Daniel, and Anabel. Kasper, too, spoke a lovely Dutch. Peter’s was different, but I hardly ever heard him speak Dutch because he seemed to enjoy ribbing me in English.

Simply walking down the streets or in cafes, though, I heard beautiful Dutch everywhere I went. There was some coarseness now and then, but it wasn’t the norm. Then again, I had been living and venturing in the pricier and more international areas of the city. I wasn’t sure if that made a difference or not. One thing I wanted to do was explore areas further away from the city center. With a bike I could do that, but I would wait until the weather was warmer. This day was a freak accident and the warm weather wasn’t likely to last. By the end of the month that would change.

After my knippen, I walked to Café Krom on the corner of Utrechtsestraat and Kerkstraat. I sat at a small table next to a window looking out at Utrechtsestraat. Perfect for people watching. A server came to take my order, a youngish strawberry blonde woman. I ordered a cappuccino and a Cobb salad. The server was curt and impersonal. She had features that may have made her beautiful if she had smiled. I could have said she had a “bad attitude,” but that would have been a disposition I attached to her rather than who she may have been. She turned without a word and walked off.

One thing I was noticing, though, was how the spirit of a person heightened or diminished external beauty. Movement, too, made an impression. I found this fascinating. I had likely sensed these things throughout life, but I had never been consciously attentive; I hadn't explored the phenomena. Perhaps I had withdrawn within as a defense mechanism, an emotional response to protect from possible perceived rejections or judgments. The difference now was that I was at ease with myself, I liked myself, I didn’t need external validation of my worth, and I was not emotionally invested in the reactions or judgments of others. Now I could explore why a woman who, in a photograph, dwarfed another in terms of physical beauty but in person paled in comparison to the seemingly less physically attractive person. I appreciated culturally-created (and likely internalized) physical beauty, but without a spark in physicality through facial expressions, tone of voice, gestures, or body movement, structurally beautiful women and men came across as ornaments rather than humans. Who falls in love with mannequins?

I thought of the Petty Princess. I realized the reason I had never been sexually attracted to supermodels or runway models—when walking down catwalks—was the inhuman physical demeanor. Their total lack of facial expression and the stiffness of their body movements were ugly. On the other hand, I had seen women who looked like runway models walking and biking around the area and they did not have that rigidity about them. They smiled, they were loose with their movements, and they did not appear to be aloof. It wasn’t the body type after all; it was how they were required to be while working as models. I couldn’t figure out the reason why a total absence of emotion helped make fashions more attractive. Maybe designers felt that emotion detracted from the clothing, but if that was the case why use women of a certain body type and facial features? Maybe the wealthy who paid 20,000 Euros for dresses were attracted to emotionless women. Could emotions be so distasteful? Could emotions upstage the fashions? The latter was an interesting possibility. If anyone realized emotional facial expressions and body language looked better than fabrics then the fashion industry might collapse. Heaven forbid! Whether or not women were allowed to express themselves while modeling, they came across like caricatures of beauty. Falling for a cardboard cutout suggested a fairly disturbing degree of emotional underdevelopment. What does that say about “first-world” men? Hmmm …

The disinterested one delivered my cappuccino and I watched the traffic pass by. A well-dressed middle-aged couple, man and woman, arm-in-arm, walked up and stood right in front of me on the other side of the window. I could see nothing but their waistlines. What the fuck? I looked up and they had cupped their hands to the window, trying to reduce glare and look inside. The fucking door was less than ten feet away. “Walk over and step inside, you clueless ghouls.” I was trying to enjoy myself and watch the day pass by, not stare at crotches a foot or so from my face. Geesus.

They finally moved along and fortunately did not step inside. If they had sat next to me I may have screamed. The bored woman brought my salad and I ate in earnest. I hadn’t eaten since early morning and mid-afternoon was approaching. I wished I had ordered a beer, but then I thought of the server and realized I wanted to leave immediately after I finished my salad. An espresso would have been nice, but fuck that. Time to go. I had read good reviews about Café Krom, but on this day I was unimpressed. The interior was inviting, but the waitress was not.

I left, walked down the block to unlock my bike, waved inside Houtman Kappers, and rode home. I cycled past walkers and bicyclists heading the other way. I cut to the sidewalk when a car headed toward me on the street. There was a steady stream of them so I dismounted and walked my bike the rest of the way to the crowded rack just outside my apartment. I squeezed it into a slot and locked up. I carried my hat and scarf upstairs, unlocked, and set them on the table before walking to the couch and tilting the window open, the top angling inward—it opened two different ways. I fished out a cigarette and puffed away, watching the traffic move along the street in the sunshine. Too many cars. All the pedestrians were trapped on the sidewalks and the cyclists had to jockey for position. I wished Amsterdam would just ban cars altogether. There was simply no reason for them. Maybe allow delivery vehicles, but commuters could take the trains and trams, cycle or walk. The city wasn’t perfect and maybe that was for the best. I had to want for something, after all.

I leaned away from the window after my cigarette and ran a hand over my near-shaved head. The stylist had gone as close as she could without a razor. My new aerodynamic head would undoubtedly allow me to break speed records when I cycled through the city. I went to the kitchen to drink some water then grabbed a beer out of the fridge. I guzzled about a third of it in one drink and sighed. “Damn, that was a good day.” I went back to the fridge and pulled out the doses of Hawaiian and Thai. “And it’s still going strong.”

I didn’t open the containers, though. Not quite time. I went to the bedroom and opened the windows to get a cross-breeze running through the apartment, air the place out. Who knew when it would be quite so warm again? I looked out the window at the back porch. Hmmm. Looked inviting. I went back to the living room, loaded a bud of Arjan’s into the pipe, and grabbed my lighter, smokes, the beer I was drinking, and another cold one from the fridge. I walked to the back door in the bedroom, opened it, and walked to a wicker chair with cushions padding it. There was a little table beside it with an ashtray on it. I placed my goodies down then sat. The balcony was the length of both bedrooms, the width of the apartment. There was a yard down below, quite beautifully kept by the occupant downstairs.

I looked across the way, saw a police woman having a cigarette, and waved to her. She smiled and waved back. I picked up the pipe, lit up, and exhaled. Fuck, it felt good to smoke pot in front of a cop and not have to worry about a thing. I put the pipe down and picked out a cigarette. I lit and inhaled. I looked over at the police woman again and she continued to casually smoke her cigarette. I said, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She yelled back, “Ja, perfect day.” I picked up my beer and took a drink, still smoking my cigarette. Sunshine, warm weather, lounging on the back porch looking up at a blue sky and over at a lovely police woman while drinking beer, smoking buds, and having a cigarette. What a beautiful fucking day.

The sun was dipping in the west. I was facing southeast and there were trees in the yards next door blocking any view in that direction. Still, the color of the sky told me there wasn’t much daylight left. The air was starting to chill a little, but, damn, it felt good. So clean, so fresh. If I could have chosen anywhere in the world to be doing anything I wanted to do, I would have chosen exactly where I was doing what I was doing. I raised a beer to the thought and finished the bottle off then opened the other.

I loved hanging out with myself. I was good company. Strange, I had been extremely social my whole life, but now I relished my time alone. Quite a shift. I still enjoyed being with others, but not exclusively now. Quality time with myself, my beer, my buds, and a slowly darkening sky on a wicker chair on a quiet back porch. My mind quieted and I simply gazed up with my head resting against the chair and my feet up on a little stool, feeling the cool breeze drift by me.

After it was dark, I took another hit off the pipe then carried everything inside, including the empty beer bottles. I went to the kitchen, made pasta and sauce, adding spices here and there. I put together a small, simple salad to go with it. I ate at the dining table, thinking of nothing, simply enjoying the food, washing it down with water. After I finished, I put the plate and pans in the dishwasher. I had a good load in there so I poured detergent into its container and started it. I had remembered to do laundry the day before so I didn’t need to worry about that any more—finally. I had also watered the plants. Responsibilities.

I went back to my computer and checked my email. I had an offer for another index due in March. I checked my schedule and decided I could do it without cutting into my balanced life. I had a bevy of PDFs on my desktop all waiting for me to do something about them. Their time would come. Nothing urgent could have sustained its urgency on this day. I went back to the kitchen and ate both doses of shrooms. I finished off the bowl of Arjan’s and loaded another for later.

I grabbed another beer then went out on the balcony. Dark now and colder air. I went back inside to put on a light jacket. I went back out to sit, smoke, and drink. The silence filled me and the light breeze lifted me. Strange to be filled by something thought of as nothing. Silence might be the most beautiful music of all. I blew a smoke ring in the air and watched it float away. This was the best moment of my entire life, watching the smoke ring drift up and up, slowly stretching apart then disintegrating. So many new moments with legitimate claims as being the best. The current moment was always awarded the prize while the other contenders smiled appreciatively. No past moment wanted to win that award; they always wanted the next moment to be better than they were.

When I finished my beer I grabbed my cigarettes and the empty before stepping inside. I wanted to go for an evening stroll so I put on my new hat. The light jacket was sufficient. I didn’t need the scarf, but as I thought that I realized I forgot to look for gloves. “Shit. Maybe tomorrow.” I wrote it down on my list and crossed off “scarf” and “hat.” I grabbed my keys, wallet, and phone. I left the windows open and went out, locking up behind me, and walked toward Utrechtsestraat. I crossed the street and kept walking on Kerkstraat, passing by the Albert Heijn on Vijzelstraat. I came upon Spiegelstraat and thought of turning to stroll there, but changed my mind.

As I kept going on Kerkstraat I passed what appeared to be a comic book shop. I looked in the small window and the place seemed loaded with rows of books and comics all the way to the back wall. It was closed but I wanted to go inside. I turned to keep walking and saw Conscious Dreams not far ahead on the other side of the street. That would serve as a good landmark to remember where the comic book store was. They might have some weird, interesting shit. As a person who had been sketching since childhood I enjoyed seeing the work of others. H.R. Giger turned me on while I was in college and, in a way, my drawing style resembled his sketches. Mine were less recognizably biomechanics, but I had similar patterns in my drawings. He had certainly influenced my drawing style. Perhaps that was why Paulette thought my sketches were so disturbing. I just admired the craftsmanship of Geiger’s art. The meanings of the content were less important to me. Pure aesthetics minus conceptualization.

The shrooms made their presence known as I neared Leidsestraat. Interestingly, I didn’t have the panic I’d had in the fall around this area even though it was crowded on this cool but inviting evening. Just as in the day, the warmer night temperatures had drawn everyone outside. I enjoyed the presence of the crowd as I turned south toward Leidseplein. There were so many faces coming and going. A few cafés had heated outdoor seating, but all the seats were filled. I ambled through the center of the square passing by individuals and groups who were passing by me. I felt my senses heightened but I gave no evidence of it. No one seemed to notice. I was just another ambler in a sea of amblers.

I kept walking toward Vondelpark. Being in the park while shrooming intrigued me. I walked the long path through what I considered “the narrow” until I passed under the Van Baerlestraat overpass. The huge park opened up. I saw the lights of the grand Nederlands Filmmuseum and simply stared at it. The lights streaked now and then whenever I moved my head or eyes. A sound often accompanied the streaks, a hissing sound like a bullet passing by my ear. I turned and walked deeper into the park, down less crowded, pebbled trails that followed along the ponds. The park was as peaceful as I was. Couples holding hands passed now and then; they enhanced the romantic aura of the park. Soft-glowing light posts along the paths lightened the dark; easy on the eyes.

I sat on a bench for a long time forgetting about everything. I forgot I had a past, that I had been alive for thirty-some-odd years, that I had once been a child, that I had gone to school, that I had been married, that I worked, that I had traveled all over Europe, the United States, parts of Canada and Mexico, that I had been to the Cuyp Markt earlier in the day, and that I had gotten a knippen. I remembered only sitting on the back balcony looking at the smoke ring floating up into the dark sky.

I was that smoke ring and after dissipating I had reconfigured myself at this spot, on this bench, looking out over a darkened pond. Silhouettes passed on distant paths and shadows snaked up from the ground. A few lights flew in arcs above me in the sky. The only sound was from the breeze and the pebbles shifting beneath my shoes. The pebbles felt like quicksand. Not dangerous, more like a pebble-sand bath that might softly brush away dead skin. I looked up in the sky and saw the glowing white orb. What was it, this round white thing, and how did it manage to become two-dimensional in a four-dimensional world? Ah, the moon. “I’m a moonbeam. I forgot! How could I have forgotten? How long since I forgot I was?” Was it important to know I was a moonbeam? Did not knowing make me less of a moonbeam? Did believing I was anything else make me something besides a moonbeam? No, how could that be? I was a moonbeam. I had just forgotten. I was relieved to remember.

After a couple hours—I assumed; there was no way of knowing—I rose and meandered further inward to the south before crossing to the other side of the park. A most peaceful night to end a beautiful day. I took the walkway up to Van Baerlestraat and followed the route I took on my bike earlier. It was interesting to see the same sights in the dark while shrooming. They weren’t the same at all. I walked down PC Hoofstraat, enjoying the lit-up window displays. Orange was a prominent color and I noticed the clean, sharp lines in the designs of the display backdrops. The design trend was still bold and bright colors with orange playing an especially prominent roledominating. It was the national Dutch color, but I didn’t think that was a factor. Some renowned and influential designer likely had declared orange was the color of the season and everyone who believed they were anyone followed suit. Angles and geometric shapes—abstracts—were prevalent as well. Clean was the word that came to mind. I noticed a favoring for uniformity of color rather than gradations or color mixes. Simplicity through color offset by the complexity of angles and curves. I thought of my sketches, but my work was busier than what I was seeing. Simplicity here. Fewer lines and curves placed for three-dimensional effect. I tried to figure out the purpose but there was nothing being said conceptually. The designs pleased the eye. If they had a purpose that was it. Attract the eye, the attention of the viewer, and attract passersby to transform them into consumers.

I thought about this and realized the design was saying, “I am mysteriously beautiful but beyond the mind of the simple. If you are attracted to me then you are worthy of the quality of the wares inside. You are hip, you are trendy, and you deserve to be associated with me. Come, come and join the Versace universe and be admired by lesser beings while being in the presence of others as exclusively moneyed as yourself.” I thought it was an effective sales pitch, much more effective than words would have been. My shrooming eyes were impressed. “How wonderful to be able to see all of that without having to pay a penny.”

I walked onward to the busy Stadhouderskade and flinched at the noise of the busy vehicular traffic. “Such rudeness!” I felt no anxiety just a vile distaste for the stink of the sounds. I walked on and wondered at the majesty of the Rijksmuseum. A massive rectangular spaceship had landed in the middle of the city and “ohmed” its presence outward in all directions. “I am here. Worship me and be healed.” I laughed at it then bowed. “You are magnificent, oh great one. Continue your omnipresence and I shall pass with reverence.” I crossed the Stadhouderskade and walked to Spiegelstraat. I passed more lovers holding hands. Some cyclists whizzed by me from behind. I liked all of it. I admired the lighting of Spiegelstraat, as I always did, but it was getting colder so I aimed to walk home. My legs were tired after such a long day and night of cycling and walking.

Kerkstraat was busy with pedestrians, cyclists, and motor scooters. There was a car now and then as well. I was getting tired of the hubbub. The cacophony thinned a little past Albert Heijn on Vijzelstraat. I stopped at the park next to Amstelveld to sit on a bench and stretch my legs. The shrooms kicked up a notch. My legs felt a million miles long while also bulging like boulders. I didn’t sit long—I didn’t want to take the chance of a weird-out so close to home. I got up and continued down Kerkstraat, now slightly freaked by cyclists and pedestrians. “Are they looking at me? What are they saying about me? Are they speaking Dutch? Why does it sound like they are uttering word scribbles? They could be aliens dressed in Dutch disguises. They’re saying, 'Srcbbchf iffhrt desjdu ghidoskwe.' What could that mean? Why are their eyes the size of bicycle wheels and filled with moonlight?’ Oh, yes, the moon! I had forgotten about the moon at Vondelpark. Ah, they were completely normal folks who happened to be moonbeams like me, remnants of smoke rings, dawdles on a shring shring.

I finally arrived home. I looked at my watch, but it made no sense. “How could that represent anything meaningful? Ridiculous.” I took off my coat and hat then closed all the windows. I went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of sparkling water. I downed it in three gulps. I poured water from the tap into the bottle and drank that as well. I went to the living room, sat down on the fuzzy rug, and began sketching to give my mind something to do besides think.

I drew for some time before getting up to get more water. I grabbed the last beer out of the fridge and went to the window in the living room to smoke a cigarette. There weren’t many people passing by. The shrooms had mellowed, but even after they had tuned my identity out of existence I felt chill. With each passing day I was changing, becoming more at peace with myself. I loved the city and it was changing me, too. I blew a smoke ring out the window, watching myself float in the air and disappear. “I’ll be back again, existing somewhere else as something else.” I felt this was always how things had been. I let the feeling be.

After my cigarette I closed the window, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. I went to the bedroom, stripped down to boxers, got into bed, and pulled the covers up to my neck. I watched the ceiling, mostly dark except for the glow of the soft light coming from me, the moonbeam.