Amsterdam Thirty-Nine: Che the Autonomist

I opened my eyes. Morning sun. Cold, very cold. Groggy and disoriented. I was sitting on the ground, my back resting on a railing of some sort. People were walking by me and a scooter passed from the other direction. I looked around; I was sitting on the Magere Brug! How the fuck did I get here? What time is it? It seemed early. I was wearing a coat, winter lid, and shoes. That was good. I frantically searched my pockets. “Fuck, thank god.” I had my keys and wallet. Jesus, what the fuck?

I stood up. No one seemed interested or surprised that I had been sleeping on the bridge. Then again, whoever might have thought it strange was likely long gone. At least I wasn’t robbed. Still, how did I get here? When did I leave the apartment? I slowly walked across the bridge toward Albert Heijn. I looked down while thinking. The last thing I remembered was … I couldn’t remember. Nothing had been coherent for … how long? Impossible to say. I swam without moving in a swamp for an eternity, but nothing stuck out, not even emotions. It was as if I had been suspended in sensory deprivation, denied thought and emotion. Could it be that I was not for an indefinite period of time, existing as a lump? How does a lump put on a hat, coat, and shoes, walk out of an apartment and down the street to a bridge? Had I covered other territory as well? There was no way to know.

I felt good, though. Cleansed. Clear-headed, no mental detritus. Alive. Other than my questions I had no thoughts and other than a gentle buzz of satisfaction I felt nothing. Freedom. Free of desires, free of needs. What does one do when freed of those things? Why was I walking toward Albert Heijn? What if I left my apartment unlocked? I shrugged, stopping to look out over the Amstel from the other side of the bridge. Lovely in the morning light. The buildings on the other side were stately, some tilted this way or that from centuries of shifting pilings below. I remembered that some buildings occasionally had to be raised so that new pilings could be inserted underneath to stabilize the building and prevent it from sinking into the water-logged sand and muck. I had no idea how much an endeavor like that would cost.

I watched pedestrians out of the corner of my eye and saw a woman, maybe thirty but it was hard to tell, wearing a fluffy bright green parka, pink leggings, white ankle-length winter boots with faux brown fur circling the tops, a purple scarf, orange gloves, and an orange winter hat with sandy blonde hair leaking out the sides and back. Well, that’s different. As she passed I began walking alongside her. I said, “I don’t often talk to anyone on the street if I don’t know them, but I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. I’d like to speak to you in Dutch, but I’m American. It’s not my fault, I just happened to be born there.”

The woman kept walking without turning her head. However, her facial expressions changed from nonchalance to annoyance to mildly amused. Amused was good. “My name is Michael. Not that you asked, but you can call me that if you decide to talk. I was simply enjoying the morning sunlight on the Amstel, looking at the beautiful buildings across the river, and wondering about how they put pilings under them when they start to sag. Then you walked up and as I looked at you I thought, ‘I’ll bet she has a colorful personality.’ I could be wrong, though. You might have a very bland personality and you dress colorfully to compensate for being uninteresting. I thought it was worth walking along with you to find out.”

The woman turned her head to look at me. She gave me a once over head to toe and up again. She turned her face forward again without saying anything. I wondered if she was a cyborg, if she had just scanned my face and body looking for weapons or qualities worthy of mating to spawn new half-human, half-robot beings. Father to a cyborg baby, that would be a story to tell my grandchildren … except that my grandchildren would be cyborgs as well and would probably find stories pointless. I decided to look her up and down since she had me. She had a cute profile, a button-nose, rose-colored cheeks wind-bit by cold, a cute little chin and lips that protruded in a natural pucker. Very kissable lips. I couldn’t tell her eye color then I remembered the other night when I thought about irises and realized knowing that meant nothing. Not now, anyway. I looked down at her legs and they were muscular, not thin but also not big. Proportional, really.

I sighed as we passed Albert Heijn. I was tempted to stop walking to buy a pack of smokes and an energy drink, but I kept walking with the oddly-dressed cyborg. “You know, I woke up this morning, not long ago, on the Magere Brug. I didn’t know how I got there. I had been in my apartment, on Kerkstraat just on the other side of the Skinny Bridge, last night. I was dancing happily on moving floorboards then there was just darkness. The next thing I remembered was opening my eyes while watching pedestrians pass by me on the bridge. That was about ten minutes before I met you.”

The woman turned to me, her eyes lively, and asked, “Were you drinking?” I shook my head. “No, not at all. That’s what’s so strange.” She continued looking at me as we crossed the bridge over Muidergracht, the way I usually went to Eik en Linde and Bloem, but she turned right on Muidergracht instead of going straight on Plantage Kerklaan. The woman said, “You should see a doctor.” I turned my whole body to her and walked sideways next to her, very animatedly saying, “That’s just it, though. I feel incredible, possibly better than I have ever felt in my entire life. Like I said earlier, I don’t usually talk to anyone on the street unless I know them. But today,” I turned my body forward and looked at the sky, “Today is different.”

I was looking straight ahead, but I could see her head was turned toward me. She said, “I don’t know what to say.” She turned her head straight and then turned back again. “How far are you going to walk with me?” I turned to her and said, respectfully, “Until you want me to stop walking with you.” She nodded her head and turned forward with just a trace of a smile.

“You know, I have never started a relationship with someone I previously knew. Every friendship I’ve ever had started by meeting someone I didn't know. They didn’t know me, either. So, you see, what we're doing now is really not that unusual.” I paused then said, “This is how relationships begin. It's not possible to start a friendship with someone you haven't met.” She looked at me and said, “So ... you think relationships start by talking with strangers walking across a bridge ten minutes after you woke up on a street not knowing how you got there?” I held in a laugh. “Admittedly, this is a first for me and I didn’t intend to begin a relationship with you. But what's so different about meeting on the street versus meeting in a cafe or bar? Besides, every friendship I’ve had started without any intention to become friends. That just sort of happened as time passed. It’s very strange now that I think about it.” The woman said, “You are really weird.”

“I don’t know whether you’re complimenting me or not, but I agree with you. I am weird. Even I think I’m weird, like there’s some part of me trapped inside terrified that he has to be in this mind and body, saying ‘I didn’t ask for this, man. Why can’t I be inside a normal person’s head.’ I always tell the guy, ‘There are no normal people. We’re all weird but you can’t tell because you’re so fucking scared.’” The woman laughed. I said to her, “Look, I have to give you a name because you haven’t told me yours. I’m only doing it because inside my head you’re the 'colorfully dressed woman' and it’s really burdensome to think of you that way. I need something more personal even if it leads me to create a false persona for you. What do you think of 'Mona'?” She shook her head. “No. I mean, it’s a good name and in a way it fits, but I like ‘Che.’”

“'Che' as in 'Che Guevara?'” She nodded. “Okay, Che it is. Are you a communist?” Che shook her head. “No, I’m an autonomist.” Hmmm... “That’s intriguing. I’ve met anarchists, but never an autonomist.” Che said, “There are similarities, but … there are differences, too. I’m not militant. I just want to live, but if the government keeps fucking with us that might change.” As we crossed the bridge over Muidergracht at the southeast end of the Artis Zoo—we had been walking on an island—Che turned to me and asked, “Why are you talking with me?” I said, “I don’t know. You’re wearing an odd color combination and it just seemed like the thing to do.” She laughed. "Honestly, now that I know you’re an autonomist I’m even more interested than I was earlier. Differently interested. I want to know more.”

We crossed the bridge over the Singelgracht then wandered to the south past the Tropenmuseum into Oosterpark. We walked silently. I had only been in Oosterpark once previously, but I didn’t remember much of it. Like most parks in Amsterdam, it was lovely. We came to a bridge spanning a pond and stopped to look out at the water. The temperature was still cold, but there was less of a wind than there had been earlier. The sky was now completely overcast, but it didn’t look like rain.

As Che and I peacefully looked out over the water, I said, “I don’t know anything about autonomism as a political philosophy, but I can imagine what the principles might be. For instance, I don’t believe property rights and ownership are socially healthy. They cause more harm than good. The economic system—all economic systems I’ve examined—are faulty. Political systems, too. None are coherent or consistent with the good of human nature and relations; they don’t enhance the experience of living except for a very few. I like Amsterdam and The Netherlands, though. At least here squatting is legal.”

Without looking away from the water Che said, “For now.” I looked at her with surprise. “What do you mean?” She sighed and drooped her head a little, playing with her thumbs. “The government is threatening to ban squatting. Things may get ugly soon.” How the fuck did I meet this woman? Thank you shrooms for the bevy of gifts. Jesus. “Are you a squatter?” Che looked at me and nodded her head somberly. She looked back at the water. “There are a lot of squatters who hate your guts. You don’t speak Dutch and you come to the country to rent an apartment in an upscale neighborhood. Even with your beliefs, it wouldn’t be enough. You’re still living within the system and occupying space in a country that is overcrowded with capitalists as it is.” Whoa. “And you?” Che took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know you well enough.” I said, “Yeah, but you’re speaking with me, you’re listening, you don’t appear to hate me.”

Che looked at me again. “No, I don’t hate you. Maybe I’m making it seem worse than it is. There are a number of people who would probably be cool with you. If you believe those things, though, why are you still part of the system?” That was a damn good question. I looked up and watched the indistinguishable layer of clouds covering the city like a cozy blanket. “It took a long time for me to get to this point. I’ve had to sift through layer after layer after layer of indoctrination. If I believed in anything supernatural I would say it’s a miracle that I’m not a fundamentalist capitalist. I have a degree in marketing, for crissakes. In a way, that was the beginning of my disillusionment. Everything was predicated on manipulation for the sake of profit. Humans weren’t beings, they were consumers; that was their function and purpose in the world, to buy shit.” I paused. “There’s a lot more I can say. I know my own history of change and I can see that I’m likely to become more and more radical in my political and economic views over time. I have to heal myself first, though. That’s why I’m in Amsterdam.”

I saw Che looking at me out of the corner of my eye. “Healing yourself?” I looked at her more fully in the eye. Whatever light-heartedness I felt earlier had dissolved. The weight was substantive, but not emotional. I could feel how I was looking at her. There was a lot of force being directed through my eyes. I enunciated purposefully and spoke authoritatively. “My life has been a series of nightmares. I have had pockets of joy and I relished them, but they never lasted long. I have never been able to rid myself of the shit I’ve witnessed and endured. I’m staying in Amsterdam for three months at that apartment and my primary intention is to live this visit as a vision quest.”

Che considered this. “Exactly how are you approaching this vision quest?” I continued looking at her with the same weight. “By shrooming. I have to find out how my mind works so I’m not ruled by the thought of the world, but in communication with it. I’ve been making changes, but the pace has been too slow. There have been too many losses, too many heartaches. I feel an urgency to accelerate the process. The shrooms help.” I eased up a bit. “You know, I never would have approached you three months ago. I would have remained inside my shell, protecting myself from persons I didn’t know or understand. I was too damaged to take risks, all but crushed by life. I’m a survivor, though. I’ve gotten up every time I’ve been knocked down and I’ll keep going until I’m dead.”

Che peered into my eyes for a long time. She was very serious. “I respect that. I respect you.” She took a breath and looked down as she held the railing of the bridge. She crossed one foot in front of the other and leaned her body away from the railing, holding herself up by her hand. “I … have to meet some people soon. I wish I had more time because I’ve become more interested in you. Differently interested, as you said. I want to hear more.” Che smiled and shifted gears. “I’m glad I didn’t tell you to fuck off earlier.” I laughed as she continued. “I was really close, just waiting for the right moment, but you became more interesting as we walked.”

I said, “I’d like to talk with you again.” Che nodded. She seemed to be thinking. “Meet me in front of the Stedelijk tomorrow at noon.” I nodded. “Okay.” Che walked backward down the bridge. “You need to learn Dutch!” She turned away, walking east through the park.

I watched Che walk off then I turned back to the railing of the bridge and looked out over the water. The park was so peaceful. The few people I saw were walking so slowly I had to watch them for several seconds to make sure they were moving. It was as if time had slowed in the park, running at quarter speed. Someone needed to come up with an equation to measure the speed of walking in a park. The speed of light, the speed of sound, and the speed of walking through a park. I wandered around the paths of Oosterpark until I came back to the Tropenmuseum and exited.

I walked back to the Magere Brug the way Che and I had come. I went into the apartment and checked the time. Just after noon. I made a broodje and as I did I thought of all of the privileges I had. Still, I was living on borrowed time. The money would run out eventually and if anything happened with my health, well, I would be fucked. I drank water from the tap and decided to ride over to Spui to get more shrooms. I took a puff of Super Silver to relax my muscles before leaving. I took my small black backpack, locked up, and went out to unlock my bike.

I rode down Kerkstraat and thought of just popping over to Conscious Dreams, but I wanted to see the guy I met the previous day. I hadn’t even gotten his name. It might have been Darren, but I couldn’t remember. I sped down Vijzelstraat past the Muntplein onto Rokin and turned west on Spui pedaling far down the street to Inner Space. I locked my bike and went inside. Unfortunately, the young long-haired fellow wasn’t there. Instead, there was an older guy, possibly sixty, with a dirty white beard and a captain’s hat on his head. He had a big gut, a shirt two sizes too small, and nasty look in his eyes. He chewed on a cigar like a dog on a meaty bone.

I walked up to him and said, “I’ll take two doses of Golden Teacher and one does of McKennaii.” The man sat still for half a minute just staring at me. I asked him if he spoke English. “Yeah, I speak English. What did you want?” I said, “Two doses Golden Teacher and one dose McKennaii.” He grumbled as he removed the doses. I pulled off my backpack and held it up so he could put them in there. “You have not paid. I put in sack when you pay.” Fine. I handed him a hundred Euro bill and he made change. I held up my bag again and he held the doses in his hands, waiting. My patience for this asshole was wearing thin. I bit my lip , refused to say, “What the fuck is your problem, dickhead?!” I couldn’t control my eyes, though. I could feel the way they looked. I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of my eyes at that moment. The old man put the doses in my bag. I zipped it shut, turned my back to him, and left. Once the door closed I let out a primal scream, purging the negativity from my body and mind. I didn’t want to fuck with the old man because I might want to purchase shrooms there again. Why the fuck was that guy working at a smart shop, anyway? The first asshole I had ever come across in a shroom shop.

I unlocked my bike and rode back the way I came. I wasn’t in a sightseeing mood after that interaction. The intersection at the Muntplein was insane. A woman walked into traffic right when the light changed causing everyone, including me, to honk and ring their bells. She was an idiot. She turned to look at the traffic like a deer caught in the headlights. I yelled out, “Either cross the street or go back! You’re holding up traffic!” I resisted the urge to call her a bitch. She was already rattled enough. Hilariously, she took one step back then two steps the other way then ran back to the side of the street from where she had come. The guy on the bike next to mine shook his head, laughed, and said something to me in Dutch, obviously derogatory given the tone of his voice. Che was right; I needed to learn Dutch.

I arrived back at my apartment around three and chilled out with a puff of Haze. I opened the window to smoke a cigarette and watched the day go by. The previous night seemed like a million years ago. For the first time since I ran to the coffeeshop the previous night, I had a chance to think, to process all that happened. The only thing I really wanted to think about, though, was how I wound up on the street in the morning. I had never had a blackout while using shrooms or LSD. It didn’t even seem like a blackout, just a heavy darkness that lasted indefinitely. I felt fine when I woke, just disoriented from being on the street. Fucking weird.

Then meeting Che, that was ... if I hadn’t woken on the street and hadn’t been in that frame of mind … just weird. A squatter. I had admired squatting, thought it was a righteous act of liberation from political and economic oppression. I had never seriously considered it, though. It seemed like a far off idea, a fairy tale of defiance. Che certainly didn’t fit the stereotypes I had unwittingly concocted. She was bright, clean, grounded, and amicable. What the fuck is autonomism, anyway? I thought of looking it up online, but I was exhausted. I wasn’t sure how much sleep I had gotten. I took another hit off the pipe and lied down on the couch to crash. I wanted to be fresh for the shrooms in the evening.

Amsterdam Thirty-Eight: New Bike, Golden Teacher

“Where the fuck is this place?” I looked for the bicycle shop Daniel mentioned. I google mapped it, but I was having trouble figuring out which road to take. The names were not matching my chicken-scratch directions. I had followed the Sarphatistraat onto an island, but I didn’t know where I was. I entered a small market and asked a clerk if he knew the bike shop. The clerk’s English was not good, but he seemed to understand what I said. He drew a map for me and I bought a bottle of water just so I didn’t feel like a prick.

I found the shop using his directions. The lot outside the building was huge. Hundreds of bikes were parked outside, row after row. Then I entered the building and realized the bicycles outside weren’t for sale—they were the bikes of the shoppers and employees! Holy fuck! Thousands of bicycles were racked from floor to ceiling in what could have been a converted airplane hangar. I searched for a section with a price range around 100 to 125 Euros. An employee helped me, showing off different bikes with different features, different strengths and weaknesses. He was incredibly helpful and informative, but didn’t seem to give one shit whether I bought a bike or not. This was the type of sales approach I preferred. Give me some breathing room to make a well-thought-out decision and I won’t wait outside to knock your teeth out when you finish working. Why was this concept so difficult for American salespeople to understand? Oh, that’s right, they were paid on commission instead of a salary with benefits like this guy. After the relaxed and comfortably paid employee spent a half hour chilling with me while giving demonstrations along with information, I chose a model that cost 135 Euros along with a 30 Euro bike lock.

I was excited. My first bike in Amsterdam! I wrapped the lock around the top frame of the bike, locked it in place, and left the store. I hopped on my bike and noticed the sun breaking through the clouds. “Sunshine!” I cycled toward the “mainland” to Hoogte Kadijk, turned south on Entrepotdok Sluis, and west on Entrepotdok. I arrived at Bloem after two. I locked my bicycle onto the rack and went in through the side door. There were a few customers and Daniel was working with an attractive woman I didn’t know. There had been a beauty deficit created by Anabel’s absence. Apparently, this woman had been hired to provide a surplus.

When Daniel came free from working on drinks I nodded for him to follow me. He looked at me quizzically. We went outside and I showed him my new bike. He bent down and took a close look at it. He looked up and said, “Good choice, this is a nice bike.” He rose and extended his hand. I shook it as he said, “Congratulations. You are now officially Dutch.” I laughed then Daniel said, “Well, not quite. You need to get another bike for special occasions.” Huh? He said, “Most Dutch have two bikes, one for everyday use and one they use for special occasions like anniversaries or weddings.” I said, “You’re shitting me.” He laughed and shook his head. He was serious. “The fucking Dutch, man. America’s got two-car garages and the Dutch have a home rack for two bikes.” Daniel corrected me, “Two bikes per person!” I slapped my hand against my forehead. “Of course they do!”

We walked inside and Daniel poured me a beer. “I’d have one with you but we’ve been busy today. The weather’s nice so it’ll probably stay that way.” I understood and told him I wanted to get out for a ride around the city, anyway. “Oh, yeah, of course.” He introduced me to Bloem’s newest addition. “Michael, this is Fleur.” She smiled and said hello. Daniel said to Fleur, “Michael’s American but he has an apartment in the city.” She nodded and continued working.

Daniel looked at two slips of paper, started on drinks, and then went back to the kitchen to place orders. I heard a “Ja!” then finished my beer. I wanted to get out and see the city. I paid Fleur, trying to make small talk, but she seemed shy. I shrugged my shoulders, waved goodbye to Daniel, and left. I unlocked my bike and rode over the Entrepotdok bridge toward Middenlaan. I waited in the bike lane for the light to change. When it did I sped along and crossed the bridge connecting to Nieuwe Kerkstraat. I couldn’t believe the time I was making. What a huge difference! I flew by Albert Heijn and used my bell for the first time as a middle-aged woman fiddled with her grocery bag. She looked up in horror then got out of the way, yelling “Sorry!” I waved and smiled as I passed and she smiled back. I sped up and zoomed over the Magere Brug weaving around pedestrians. This was fucking fun! The day really was perfect, too. The sun had come out in full force and there was only a slight breeze with a hint of chill. Amazing for January. Great winter biking weather.

I followed Kerkstraat past my place and all the intersecting streets up to Vijzelstraat. I stopped there to let a tram pass then made my way relatively unencumbered. I stopped at Leidsestraat with a bevy of other cyclists beside and behind me. Once the tram and cars cleared we split off in all directions, weaving through pedestrian traffic while ringing our bells. I went straight ahead and came to a “T” at Leidsegracht. I turned and rode half a block to Prinsengracht, my favorite of the big canals, and turned west. I saw Café Molenpad across the canal and made a mental note to go for coffee on a good-weather morning. It was the first place I tried Bitterballen. I burned my tongue because the grease was so hot. The place had charm and its setting on Prinsengracht was unmatched.

I leisurely rode along the tree-lined canal looking at the houseboats, lazily wondering what it would be like to live in one. I imagined waking up in the summer, making coffee, walking out onto the deck to read a book while tanning, watching cyclists and pedestrians walk past on the street as well as the boats puttering by in the canal. Seemed like a good life. It wasn’t hard to imagine summer on such a beautiful day. The weather made the street and the canal that much more inviting. Prinsengracht had a special vibe no matter the weather, though. I hadn’t been past Leidsestraat on my previous trip so this was the first time since 2004 I had been to the eastern canal ring. Prinsengracht was the outer canal of the three major canals—the other two being Herengracht and Keizersgracht—so it was the longest of the “U” shaped canals.

I crossed the bridge at Westermarkt and rode to the Westerkerk. I stopped and found a bench. I leaned my bike against it and sat down. There were walkers and cyclists galore. I felt invigorated. I was breathing heavy because I had pedaled at a good clip most of the way and hadn’t been used to using bicycling muscles since living in Chicago when I regularly biked along Lake Shore Drive in the spring, summer, and fall. The nice thing about Amsterdam, comparatively, was that I could ride year-round even in the rain. The other thing that made Amsterdam a better city for cycling compared to Chicago was that you could bike anywhere in the city without worrying about traffic.

I watched the parade of people go by while basking in the sun. A pretty young woman walked up to me and I thought, “Well, this is more like it. Yes, women, come to me instead of the other way around.” For good or bad, she merely wanted me to take a photo of her and her friends in front of the church. I said sure and she showed me how to use her camera. I positioned them so I could take a good picture then clicked a couple shots. She came over, looked at the photos, and thanked me. “No worries.” I sat down next to my bike then realized I’d had my back to it the whole time. “Shit, Mike, don’t do that again without locking up! Anyone could have swiped it.” Luckily it wasn’t tourist season or it might have been stolen. I was disgusted with myself for being so absent-minded.

I got back on my bike and took Westermarkt toward the city center. Westermarkt became Raadhuisstraat and I turned left toward Amsterdam Centraal on Spui. I was going opposite car traffic and there was enough that I decided to ride on the sidewalk—big no-no—because there were so few pedestrians. I spotted a sign for a smart shop. “Hmmm … shroom again tonight? Someone obviously put that shop there for a reason and the reason must have been for me to stop.” I liked my logic. I parked outside and locked my bike to a small rack outside. I went inside and found the décor different from other shops. There were tons of strange items for sale that had nothing to do with shrooms or health or anything else. There were ships in bottles, globes made out of coconuts, didgeridoos, and other odd items. In a way, the objects were shroom-related; these were the sort of items someone shrooming might find interesting. I was tempted to purchase a coconut globe.

A long-haired young man read a newspaper as I wandered about the store. I went to the glass-topped counter and looked at the shrooms. The young guy looked up with almost total disinterest. I said I was looking for a heady trip with strong visuals. “Body high and euphoria would be a bonus.” His face lit up a little. “Cool. Are you a painter?” I shook my head. “No, I just want an experience that more fully brings my senses to life while also allowing expansive thought. I did some Hawaiians last night and I loved the heady trip, but I’d like more sensuality, a fuller body high. Euphoria would be a bonus.” The young guy proceeded to describe the attributes of the various shrooms. He had some on hand I hadn’t seen in other shops. I purchased two doses, one called Philosopher’s Stone and the other Golden Teacher. Philosopher’s Stone were truffles rather than shrooms. Whatever, as long as they took me somewhere. The guy said he often meditated or painted while using these. I thought about that and recalled my drawing pad.

The guy told me about doing ayahuasca during his travels to South America, a substance that caused him to puke a black bile-like liquid. He said if I really wanted to cross boundaries I should give it a try. “You may want someone there to wipe your ass in case you shit yourself while inside your universe.” He laughed and I said, “Whoa, that far out there?” He shook his head. “No, man, that far in there.” I asked him how long the trip lasted. “Depends. Maybe eight hours.” I asked him if it was more potent than LSD. He screwed up his mouth and furrowed his brow. “Hard to say. Just different. There are some similarities, but you feel the naturalness of ayahuasca compared to the synthetic bite of LSD. For me, I had no awareness of being human at all. I was so far into my being that there was no way to distinguish anything outside my mind. Your mind, believe me, is a universe. Shrooms are like a bike with training wheels comparatively.” I laughed and said, “Well, I probably still need the training wheels even though I dropped acid quite a few times when I was younger. That was a long time ago, though.” He nodded and said, “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying shrooms are nothing, especially if you do more than one dose. I’m just saying ayahuasca will open up your mind in ways nothing else I’ve tried can.” I nodded appreciatively and said, “Fair enough.”

I thanked the man for the shrooms and the conversation then told him I would see him again soon. He said, “You better hurry back, because I’m going to San Francisco next week. My girlfriend lives there and we’re taking a trip to Mexico.” I stopped and we talked about the Bay Area and his trip to Mexico. They were planning on going to a nude beach to trip, spiritually purge, and commune sexually. Right on. Before I left, the guy came around the counter and we embraced in a long, intimate hug. I had felt energized simply by speaking with him, but the hug seemed to purify me. I felt … connected not just with him but with myself.

I departed and thought, “Wow, riding a bike makes a world of difference. I wish he wasn’t leaving so soon. It would be great shrooming with him. Or, better yet, taking ayahuasca—he could be my designated ass-wiper.” I laughed so hard I couldn’t unlock my bike. The sky was dark, too, which made it that much more difficult. My bike had a light—I made sure when I bought it because I knew I would be night riding often. The bike had all of the reflectors necessary as well. Street ready, night ready. I had my ownership papers and registration papers, too. I straddled my bike, followed Spui to the Singel, and as I saw the river I realized I had not covered this much of the Nieuwe Zijde in years. The city was much smaller now. Killed two birds with one stone thanks to the bike. I rode along Koningsplein as it turned into Leidsestraat. The streets were busy and I was out of practice riding in traffic. There were a few stops and starts and one near-miss of a pedestrian.

I pulled onto Kerkstraat and made my way back to my apartment. I locked my bike to one of the racks outside my apartment and took my bag of shrooms and truffles inside with me. I placed them in the refrigerator. I pulled a frozen meal from the freezer—too tired to cook anything decent after a long day of walking and bike riding. It had been a great day, though. I pulled out the Philosopher’s Stone to eat with my meal. They were little clumps that looked sort of like huge walnuts. They had a similar texture and the taste was awful. It took some work chewing them and washing them down. “These fucking things had better be good.” I wasn’t sure that they would be, though. I decided to eat the Golden Teacher shrooms as well. The guy had said both the Philosopher’s Stone and the Golden Teacher were strong. “Time to take off the training wheels and find out what else is happening within my mind and body.”

I went to have a puff of pot only to discover I was out. Shit. I put on my jacket and shoes then went out. I unlocked my bike, rode to the Greenhouse, bought three grams of Super Silver Haze, and rode back to my apartment. I locked the bike, unlocked the outer door to the building, checked Susan’s mailbox, and took her mail upstairs. As I was unlocking the apartment door, I felt a “whup-whup-whup” throughout my body. “Shit, I gotta get inside and put this mail away before all hell breaks loose!” I unlocked the door, opened it, closed it, locked it, and put the mail in the coat closet. I closed the door of the closet, leaned against it, and let out a sigh of relief.

Fuck, having to go out for pot didn’t give me any time to prepare. I wanted a hit even though I didn’t need one. I had just gone out of my way to get the cannabis, though, so I made myself load a bowl. Loading the bowl was difficult because I was feeling massive effects. I could barely lift the pipe once I put a bud in the bowl. I lit the bud, inhaled, and let go of the carb. Whoosh! I exhaled and the cloud formed into several clouds, each cloud another cloud with a different name, a different time, a different way of relating to the world. The clouds were freaking me out. “Go away! Dissipate!”

Dissipate. I really liked this word. All words needed three or more syllables. I tried to think of a way to put together a sentence using only words with three syllables, but before I could even think of one word I was awed by the disappearance of the smoke. “They went away! I said ‘go away’ and they did! Holy shit, I’m the god of clouds.” I fell back on the couch, unable to move. My eyes were fixed on the ceiling, just white-yellowness lit up by the lamps in the living room. I turned my head to the side and saw the giant plant in the corner. It was a palm tree; it wasn’t a palm tree, but it was a palm tree. “How did I get in the fucking jungle?”

The ability to move returned and I climbed from the couch against the wall to the couch against the windows. I belligerently reached for my cigarettes and lighter. I managed to snag them and lit one. I opened the window using the crank. I cranked for years and the damn thing barely opened an inch until it flew all the way open in a nanosecond. “Time is weird.” Out on the street were walkers heading in both directions. A few cyclists as well. I wondered if they just went around the block over and over and over again, like I was playing the lead in The Truman Show. It was possible. Anything was possible.

I blew smoke out the window. My awareness was dividing and dividing and dividing. One bubble of awareness followed the smoke like a private investigator while a string of attention dangled down the side of the building to twirl in stucco for the sake of learning about being stucco. A frown of sight wondered what was behind the closed curtains directly across the street; items of importance hid behind the curtains. A knuckle of shame cracked and sent a shockwave of self-loathing to a man walking alone with his head down. I wanted to feel awful about infesting him with a feeling that had been mine, but I was no longer capable. He was going to have to feel the shame for me, poor bastard. A wave of emotion-rich consciousness asked a skinny redhead dressed in an umbrella how many times she had walked around the block. She looked up, startled. “I asked you a question. How many times have you walked around the block? Is someone paying you to do it? Why are you wearing an umbrella?” She shook her head at me, exasperated or disgusted, maybe both. A bubble of my consciousness that had escaped my notice came back in the window to whisper to me, “You didn’t say the things you thought you said. You asked her if she chose to be red.” Oh.

I wanted to lean back inside but I didn’t want to abandon the parts of my awareness that had departed to wander around Amsterdam looking for clues, kissing statues, and conversing with cubes. I wanted to buy flowers from the Singel market. That and rub my feet together. I couldn’t figure out which option was more accessible. Thought shifted as my visual environment changed. There was a tiny white cathedral in a window across the street and tiny people entered it to view meta-epistemic art. The cathedral floated from the window, shimmering into the street above the walkers who now wore gas masks and hazmat suits. The cathedral expanded in size and became a spinning white globe. Faces of people swirled around while changing expressions constantly from terror to laughter to awe to confusion.

They were my expressions, expressions I contained within me as parts of who I was. The globe was my personality and the faces pretended to be feelings and moods representing a multifaceted soul generating the spin of the sphere. “How did I become the sphere? Who am I in here?” I looked down and realized I wasn’t “here” at all. I looked back outside and saw myself looking at myself from the sphere. “Fuck, I’m seeing the empty husk of a body from soul that has nothing to do with identity in any of the ways I’ve considered.” Why couldn’t I find my way from the surface to the core of the sphere? Was it only possible to look outward from within? Was I only able to be aware on the surface of my being?

These limitations seemed cruel. “Who did this? I didn’t choose it … did I?” I couldn’t tell. The walking gas masks were gone and now puppies with human bodies frolicked up and down the street. Bricks flew from building to building rebuilding buildings into entirely different shapes. There were no rectangles any more, just cones, cylinders, and spheres. “I want a triangle.” Had anyone ever asked for a triangle? Why do I want a triangle? What would I do with it? What is a triangle? A man on a bicycle stopped to readjust his head as it had nearly fallen off his neck. “That was close, man!” He looked up and stared at me. I didn’t like the look at all. “Just keep going. Nothing good can come from you lingering.” He flipped me off and began riding away. I saw his head on the ground looking up at me. I yelled, “Hey, you forgot your head!” He was long gone, the headless bicycle rider, but his fucking head kept grimacing at me. “Stop looking at me, fucker!” A bubble of awareness returned from a far-off land and told me that pedestrians were looking at me like I was a madman. “Let them look! You weren’t here, you didn’t see what happened. Why didn’t you take me with you, anyway?” No response. I was either gone or my awareness remained silent.

I quieted down and turned back inside with the intention of smoking more weed, but as I looked around … there was an entirely different world existing. Fuck, I merely had to turn my body and a new world became. I was inside a planet, certainly not Earth. I didn’t know its name and thought it would be ridiculous to give it one as it kept changing shape and color. The walls rounded. Hard edges, right angles, they ceased existing. Everything was curved. Linear thought could no longer exist as straight lines weren’t possible in this world. What had once been lifeless figurines in a corner were now melting globs of butter coating walls and seeping through the floor of this world into the world below mine. The god of that world wouldn’t be happy about all that melted butter dripping from the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if I was at fault, though. What caused butter to melt? Probably ice cream.

A living thing with a paunch coughed in the kitchen. I couldn’t see the creature, but I heard it. The paunch was a scent that described itself as flatulent, old, hunched, and formidable. I caressed my cheek, my fingers dragging my teeth down my throat and into my lungs. I chewed on inhalations and swallowed exhalations. One, two, three, four, I counted then recited the alphabet without giving credence to vowels or consonants, an alphabet without letters calculating a mathematics without symbols. The equation of representation aligned with snowballs and fetuses with boils over their eyes walking around the city, each one connected to every other by umbilical cords, an umbilical web that caught mothers and forced them to be birthed by daughters. No one was safe from anything they ate, digested food refusing to be defecated, melon mush overtaking kidneys to pound nails into two by fours for practice before being hired by contractors who were only allowed to hire human body parts to perform manual labor.

Cigarette. Was there a cigarette? No, there was nothing. There was a mirror with twinkles and lampshades next to a clock without hands or numbers, boiling oil bubbling from a vase volcano spewing plumes of plumes smelling like shrooms … oh, yeah, shrooms and truffles. I forgot. What? What? “Did you hear that zinging sound?” Who? “You.” Are you talking to me or the plants? “You are the plants.” What does that mean? “Why does it have to mean anything?” I don’t know. Aren’t things supposed to mean something? “Who told you that?” I don’t remember. I believe it, though. “Like when you believed in Santa Claus?” Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Is meaning like Santa Claus, a story told to children to make them feel better? “No, it’s a story told to adults for nefarious purposes.” Fuck, what’s real then? “Yeah, what’s real?” I’m asking you. “I am you.” Then why do you keep referring to me as “you”? “I’m not. You are!” Who the fuck is “you”?! “Not me. Must be you.” But you’re me! “I’m not ‘you’; I’m me.” Fuck, man, this doesn’t make any sense. “Exactly!”

Nothing made any sense and that was what was real. Order was a lie; chaos was reality. “No, man, there is no reality. That’s just an idea.” Who are you? “I don’t know.” This is really weird. “Is it?” I don’t know. I’m not sure what anything is. “Good, good. Now shut up and look around.” Pot, smoke pot. Inhale. Clouds of smoke. Clouds. Indoor clouds, clouds inside the world, clouds without an atmosphere, clouds parking in the rear. “The floor is wood!” The floorboards rocked up and down, wooden piano keys playing a tune I couldn’t hear. I rose and walked on the floor and, sure enough, I was bounced up and down by the wooden piano keys. I tried to hop about to avoid the floorboards that were falling, to walk only on the boards rising to their apex. I swished and turned and slashed. Inside was a tornado, no longer a floor or ceiling, walls, tables, or couches, nothing but a spinning reel that cast a line into murky waters that pulled the line and reel under an emulsified darkness. 

Amsterdam Thirty-Seven: The Loop

In the morning I walked to Eik en Linde. The sky was overcast and there was a cold breeze making the walk unpleasant. My body had a throbbing goodness reverberating through it, after-effects of shrooms. I seemed to have great days after shrooming. Something about them mixed well with my chemistry, even after bad trips. My first two experiences this trip were entirely positive, fascinating and insightful. I chalked it up to my anxiety having dissipated and my depression passed. Amazing to heal oneself, but of course I hadn’t done it without help. Amsterdam deserved an assist, those I met in the city, and of course the shrooms and cannabis. Again, I sighed at the stupidity of psychology for not understanding humanity. If healing isn’t self-directed it won’t work, but that means putting decision-making powers and resources in the hands of the depressed and anxious. Environment was crucial for me, both physically and socially. Having legal choices to hire an escort and purchase shrooms and cannabis made a huge difference. No way the psychiatric and psychological industries would support that; they would point out that self-directed approaches wouldn’t work for everyone and they certainly wouldn't condone the use of drugs that weren't profitable for pharmaceutical companies nor would they agree that escorts could provide sex therapy. Assholes. They might agree about the environment and social interaction, but what did the industry do to create those opportunities? Little to nothing. A big part of that is the fault of politics and economics; yet more reasons to restructure them.

I hadn’t been to Eik en Linde since returning and I wanted to say hello to Kasper and any regulars I recognized. When I arrived there were five people at the bar. I looked up at the backwards running clock and it took me back as if I had been gone for years. Throughout the brown café there was quiet relaxation, perhaps some hung over melancholy as well. Two older guys were playing the weird game of pool with two white balls and three red balls, banking the balls off the sides trying to tap one of the other balls. I couldn’t tell if they were supposed to strike the white ball off three banks to hit a red or if it was the other way around. I wanted to know, but just as a way to talk about something happening. I didn’t care about the game, but the players did and I loved listening to people talk about their passions no matter what they were.

It wasn’t yet 10:00 AM and I knew this because the clock said it was past two. Kasper was busy making an espresso so he didn’t see me walk in the door. Peter wasn’t there and I only knew the others by face. One man nodded in recognition and I waved hello. I sat on a stool on the tip of the curly Q. I watched Kasper as he worked. He turned to take the espresso to an older woman and as he did so I caught his eye. He stutter-stepped as he did a double-take and I thought he might drop the tiny cup and saucer. Instead, he steadied himself and placed the saucer in front of the woman. He walked over to greet me, shaking my hand. “When did you get back?” I told him over the weekend. I said, “I’m living on Kerkstraat now so it’s a little more of a walk, but not too far.” He nodded, “That’s right, you mentioned you were moving to Kerkstraat.” I smiled, “It’s good to see you, Kasper.” He nodded, "You, too. What can I get you?" I responded, “Ik wil tosti en coffee.” A tosti was cheese on toast. Kasper gave me a look. “Changing things up, eh? Trying to expand your Dutch a little, too, I see.” I said, “‘A little’ being the key words.” Kasper laughed as he walked away to place the order. I saw Philip’s red hair and thought, “Just like old times.” I felt at home.

How wonderful to come back to a place that feels like home, to people who feel like old, old friends. Funny how little time it takes to make rich connections with open-hearted people, people so comfortable with themselves that they hide little from the world and embrace newcomers easily and readily … if the newcomers are open to it and embrace openness with a similar spirit. Being willing and able to laugh at oneself was also a necessity. Places and people like these made me doubt Foucault even if my doubting was naïve. The world wasn’t entirely shit. It couldn’t be and I had evidence … or was I just in the right place at the right time, a pocket of beauty that may or may not last? Fuck it. Kasper brought my coffee and I said to him, “As long as there is still coffee we should be okay.” Kasper shivered his head and said, “What’s going on in your mind today?” I laughed, “Oh, just musings that needn’t be thought at all.” I paused and said, “I shroomed again last night.” Kasper rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Michael, Michael, Michael.” I cut him short, “No, Kasper, this time it’s a vision quest rather than recreational. Well, a mix, anyway.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Okay.” Then he smirked, “You let me know how that goes. At least you know where the hospital is now.” He was too far away for me to punch him in the arm so I just grumbled with amusement. “Smart ass.” Kasper laughed and tended to others at the bar.

After I finished eating and had an after-breakfast espresso, I left Eik en Linde, waving good bye. I wandered toward Bloem. The cafe didn’t open until noon and it was only 11:30. I walked by my old apartment then ventured into the section of the Oude Zijde I loved. It was as pleasing as I remembered. The gray skies dropped a little rain. I hadn’t brought an umbrella so I stayed on the tree-lined streets to stay dry. The drizzle added something to the neighborhood. There were hardly ever any people about. I remembered the inside-out man and wondered what happened to him. He was probably running the country by now.

I doubled back to Bloem. I didn’t want to get caught in a downpour in case the skies became angry. It was after noon when I arrived and Daniel had the place in order. He was behind the bar doing a little organizing when he saw me. “Hey, Michael. Good to see you.” He asked if I wanted lunch and I mentioned that I had a late breakfast. I ordered a cappuccino. Daniel went to work on it and I mentioned how much fun I’d had at Anabel’s going-away party. Daniel said, “Yeah, it was a good time.” We chatted on and off. A few customers came inside and sat down at a table. Daniel was busy for a bit and then settled back down behind the bar after placing their order in the kitchen. I hadn’t met the cook, but I knew he was a Turkish fellow, very nice, but spoke little English. He spoke Dutch pretty well, but that didn’t help me one bit.

“Daniel, you mentioned a bike shop the other day.” Another customer came in and Daniel tended to her. He had two tables he was serving so I sipped my cappuccino and enjoyed being in the space. I liked watching Daniel work. He was always relaxed and graceful as he moved. It was evident he had been at this a long time and his attitude made it clear he relished his work. I hadn’t noticed in the past, but today I saw how much he valued making each customer feel welcome and important. When he finally had a short break he wrote down the address of the bike shop and explained how to get there. I knew I would have to google it because it was clearly far enough north and east to be off any guide maps. I made a mental note to go the next day. “How much does a good bicycle cost?” He said, “Well, for a good reliable bike that isn’t overly attractive to thieves, hmmm, anywhere from 75 to 125 Euros. It just depends on how nice you want your ride to be. Do not spend over 150 Euros if you don’t want your bike stolen. Granted, it could get stolen no matter what which is why you need to get a top of the line lock. That might run you 30 Euros, give or take. Trust me, you’ll thank me for that. It's not that the locks are foolproof, but thieves will go after easier targets if they're available--it's Amsterdam so there are always more bikes around. Oh, and always lock both your tire and frame to a bike rack or something very solid.” I thanked Daniel for the advice.

Daniel was busy again. When he next had a break I ordered grilled lamb with red potatoes, a cucumber salad, and a beer. Bloem was picking up and a young man, maybe 6’2’’ with curly brown hair, came in to work with Daniel. His name was Tom and I discovered he was also a grad student at the University of Amsterdam. Like everyone else who worked at Bloem, he was good-looking, extremely intelligent, good-natured, and fun to be around. When Daniel had another break and I had finished my food, he took me out by the bike racks, looking them over to show me a few different types of locks. “See this one? This is the type you want. This other one will work, too, but I would purchase this one even though it’s more expensive. Again, depends on how much you spend on the bike. If you buy something cheap you don’t need to bother, but you want a decent bike if you’re going to be riding a lot.” I planned on it and salivated over how much fun I was going to have zooming around the city. I was also looking forward to being able to roam farther in a fraction of the time. Daniel said, “See this lock and this lock?” I nodded. “They’re cheap, they won’t hold up to bolt cutters at all. The bikes they’re locking aren’t worth stealing, though. These locks are just to keep people from walking up to them to ride away, but they can’t be resold for shit so no serious thief will bother.” I nodded and thanked Daniel for providing a window into Amsterdam bike culture. I knew bike theft was the number one crime in Amsterdam so I appreciated Daniel taking the time to explain some of the nuances.

Daniel and Tom became busier and busier as more customers trickled into Bloem and lingered to talk and work on their computers. Some were students, others employees from nearby design and software companies, and couples or friends enjoying an afternoon together. I thanked Daniel again, bid he and Tom adieu, and left. As I walked up Plantage Kerklaan and made my way home I decided I would try the Hawaiian shrooms in the evening. I had all my accessories laid out on the coffee table from the previous night even though I didn’t use any of them. I still had a couple cigarettes left because I'd had little urge to smoke. It had been an evening of breathing. Still, I stopped at Albert Heijn and purchased another pack along with a quart of orange juice, milk, and cereal. I crossed the Magere Brug and walked to my apartment. I plopped down on the couch and tuned to a slow jazz station to unwind.

I made a Cobb salad for supper. I had a beer, smoked a bowl, and ate Hawaiian mushrooms. I left my apartment and went for a walk to Utrechtsestraat, turned south, crossed the bridge over Prinsengracht, and Frederiksplein opened to me. I found a bench and sat down. I had an iPod with ear buds in my pocket, but I left them there so I could be fully in touch with my environment. I watched a few pedestrians walking through the park. I noticed the growing darkness of the early evening and felt the chill in the air. I was grateful there was no rain.

I felt the effects of the shrooms within ten minutes of sitting down. I experienced no heightened sensations. Instead, I felt clouds of thought dissipate and the world of my mind cleared. New thoughts flowed, thoughts unrelated to my surroundings. Perhaps it was because the relative darkness dulled visual stimuli. The park was quiet as well, no smells, a consistency of cold without wind, and nothing but the taste of my tongue. Thoughts bubbled from nowhere. Why was there not an economic system based on time instead of productivity? An artificial limitation of twenty-four hours in a day had been created and yet, for many, so few hours were dedicated to noneconomic activities. I was fortunate in this regard because of the nature of my work and the per-hour rate of pay. A word came to me: Leisure. Why wasn’t labor paid in leisure time in exchange for productivity? Labor’s time was devoted to the interests of ownership and ownership’s time was devoted to profitability. Profit, evidently, was the species at the top of the food chain. Humans ate animals and plants; profits ate the time and energy of human activity.

A soft breeze moved through the park. It began elsewhere, but found its way to this location. I stared straight ahead. My sight went to the silhouettes of branches of trees above me. I saw the configuration as two dimensional. There wasn’t enough light to create three dimensions. How significant light was to visual perception and perspective. Changes in perception and perspective were huge in conceiving the world, creating a story about what is and what isn’t. Language couldn’t adequately reflect occurrences such as these or else I simply lacked the creativity and vocabulary to do so. Language, from my perspective (again with perspective), appeared to be a defense mechanism against the perception of what was perceived and experienced. The shadowy darknesses (branches) that were given shape by the lighter darknesses (sky) were created by subtle contrasts within the same color range of gray-black or charcoal. There were no branches and there was no sky as far as visual perception was concerned. But my mind tried to force those definitions onto the shapes and those definitions altered what was seen. A schism developed between what I thought was there and what I saw was there. In my shrooming state, visual perception won; in states of “sobriety” (as if such a thing exists) interrelated concepts developed over a lifetime won.

This was the battle, the battle between thought and senses. I had been conditioned to be a language practitioner which had resulted in my being separated perceptually from the world in possibly infinite ways. My thought starkly shifted as I saw a figure walk past me on the path in front of the bench. Black shoes, black pants, and a black overcoat. Black hair and black eyes as well. Whiteness of a … face? The figure was a man clothed in black. The clothing and hair seemed truly black, but his eyes? Could they have been black? No, my thought didn’t believe it was possible. It said, “The eyes appeared black because there wasn’t enough light to see the color of the irises.” Irises? Color? Those things were imperceptible yet my mind believed in them more than what my eyes had seen. It referred back to experiences and incomplete but highly developed theories of light and color and biology.

An iris was a representation of a part of the eye, the part that has … color. But the colors of irises change based on the light … or lack of light. A more accurate description of someone with blue eyes might be, "In this range of light at such-and-such a distance, the irises appear as a particular color of blue." If I looked up close, maybe within a few inches of another’s irises, I could see intricate patterned designs of many differing colors. By pulling back, the colors became more uniform under the same lighting conditions. Yet, the language and identification of a person’s eyes were defined strictly from a certain distance under a narrow range of lighting conditions. Why were those particular distances and lighting conditions favored over others? Were these distinctions conscious decisions made by those who classified them? Was it just lazy happenstance, a series of haphazard observations that had come to be considered facts?

Memories are like language, too, defenses against new perceptions to preserve prior constructs created to explain experiences, to settle the mind, and help build frameworks from those experiences. But if the original explanation was faulty in some way then the frameworks built around those interpretations were problematic, possibly even dangerous. Perception, it seemed to me at the time, was the result of particular perspectives that delivered stimuli which was processed as information then interpreted by using memory, language, beliefs, and values from which judgments were made then funneled through a range of preferences resulting in decision making which did or did not result in actions … which changed perceptions yet again as perspective had changed and the loop began again, continuously cycling over and over, moment to moment. This process made each person precisely who they were and also ensured that each individual was unique in many ways that could not even be detected.

The question I had was whether anyone was aware of the process as it occurred. Perhaps some of the time, but a trifling compared to the moment-to-moment cycling of such phenomena. We chose so little of who we were, of what we became, compared to what could have resulted from a near-constant conscious awareness. Our capacities did not allow this, although I understood that within each person capacities differed and, furthermore, the realization and choice to direct attention and awareness in such a way might be made by individuals with much lower capacity than another thus providing a sense that their capacity was greater than others just because it was being used—well, it appeared that way for those even able to detect such awareness.

I thought about language and memory again. In some ways, they were defenses against the senses, but they also served a purpose within the loop. After all, it was language allowing me to come up with these ideas. Yet … what if my ideas were wrong? What if I was creating a false reality through these interpretations of what I had experienced with the branches—they were branches again, not dark shapes contrasted against lighter shapes!—and the man in black. On so many levels, I was trapped … and yet liberated enough to create at least this much. Again, perspective, even a perspective shaped by language and belief, determined how I looked at what seemed to be the same thing. It wasn’t the same, though. It couldn’t be even I if I couldn’t detect the difference. But how did I know even that. Damn, the Hawaiians truly were cerebral. What a glorious thing to have descriptions of shrooming experiences offered by connoisseurs.

This loop, though, this damned loop, a skeleton process of adding flesh to the bones of what makes me … me. The loop may be damned, may be of consequence only to me, but if that was the case then at least it provided a personal out from the confines of abusive moralities in a world imposing its halitosis of judgment on my thought and actions. Fuck the world’s bankrupt thinking, the prescribed notions of good and bad, none of which seemed to have a thought worth thinking propping them up, just rotting flesh covered with salt to make the thoughts taste less rancid except to a refined palate that screws its mouth into knots to protect against saltquakes and maggoted muscles ripped from once living ideas; there was not a virtue to be found through flavor or scent, just moralism and religiosity and corporate-correctness, a corporate morality of surface-level image creation that squashed the substantive fullness of being into soulless categories of production and consumption, of buying and selling, all of it, every shred of it, shit on a stick sold for one’s entire being. No, the loop would work even if not perfect. It provided a better path than than the shit sticks passing as meaningful thought.

The shrooms charged ahead: Through each loop memories changed and shifted the relation to language. Beliefs adapted and values transformed. Within each loop, the shifts and changes were subtle. The passage of time resulted in additions and subtractions, magnifications and divisions. A person aged 25 years and 44 days may appear to have the same values and beliefs at age 25 years and 67 days, but that person’s beliefs and values were likely to appear very different at 53 years and 17 days. A single loop of perspective and perception was all but imperceptible, but the accumulation of loops over time made for radical shifts and changes. A drop of rain on a mountain caused little change to the mountain, but millions of years of rain drops dramatically changed the structure and appearance.

A gust of wind blew a flap of my collar up, slapping me on the neck. Whatever existed in the world changed the world and the nature of relations in it. I straightened my collar. Actions are reflections of the thinking most valued at a particular moment. This was storytelling of a different type. It remained structured as a narrative, but not sequential … or possibly even coherent. Self-understanding was narrative-based. Stories couldn't end as long as the loop continued. The stories might change, of course, but myth-making continued unabated. Was this an evolutionary quality within the species?

I was no more than a story I had been telling myself over the course of my life. Was I trapped, as I had thought, by language? As language disappeared … I breathed. Yes. That occurred the previous night. I was telling a story about something that did not require language. Why? My nature? The way I had been conditioned? Habits dictating the shape and flavor of my being? The structure of society demanded the use language. Unless I was willing to simply breathe until death I had to use language. Language, a blessing and a curse. Perhaps I could alternate on a regular basis; use language in situations when it was necessary then clear my mind when language wasn’t necessary. At the very least, this seemed like a worthwhile experiment.

I felt colder. The darkness bothered me and my thoughts were not helping. I rose, pushed the thought of the loop from my mind, and walked home mostly without language, observing what I saw and felt. I realized loops were occurring, but I pushed down language as much as I could so I could be attentive to the loops while they occurred. It didn’t work too well, though, as I thought, “I could become alarmed by a car horn or dazzled by a Dutch woman wearing a bikini on a cold night or … the possibilities are endless! Oh, my. Oh, it’s infinite. The loop isn’t a trap! It’s a process that enables change!” Drunk on thought.

When I arrived at my apartment and went inside, I went to my laptop. I began writing about The Loop—I decided to capitalize it. I had to describe it again.I could barely type, my eyes wide as saucers and my fingers the size of bananas. What I typed was coherent for a few lines and then a mass of incoherence dribbled forth. The incoherence made perfect sense to me at the time. It was all so simple. Why was the world making it so difficult?

After I finished writing, I went to the couch and lit a cigarette. I felt like I had just had sex. I also realized that the shrooms made everything more spectacular than they might actually be when not shrooming. But why would that matter? Why give greater weight to my perspective when not shrooming than while shrooming? I puffed away and when I was done I closed the window. The loop was churning. "I can be attentive to it if and when I want or I can ignore the process and let it go where it takes me. The difference is conscious intent versus conscious observance." I knew the procedural design that allowed conscious direction of action and I could access it whenever I chose—I hoped. I could also shut down my awareness of it—at my own peril because I might forget (ah, the importance of memory)—whenever I wanted or needed to do so.”

I wondered where my thoughts would go, if they had endless things to say, an infinity of stories to tell. I thought about my breathing, how the process was in and out. A Westerner might think that “in” and “out” were two distinctly different things. In fact, Westerners did think that. They had created categories. “In” had a definition that suggested one process and “out” had a definition that meant something different. This categorization was a type of storytelling, one creating a fundamental separation. With breathing, though, there was no out without the in and there was no in without the out. The in-out dynamic of breathing was an essential relationship that required that there be no fundamental separation. For the Westerner breathing consisted of two things whereas I saw only one thing; that one thing was the relationship of the in-out that constituted the process of breathing. Breathing in the West was primarily a noun, but I couldn’t conceive of it as anything but a verb.

I wanted to try indexing while shrooming. I opened the PDF of the text I had been indexing and scrolled to the page I wanted. I opened the indexing document and looked at the index, the headings and subheadings. I saw relationships. “I am making what was two or many into one and it is this associative process that allows readers and researchers easier access to the information they want. Indexing is relational thinking.” I had been indexing for thirteen years. “No wonder I think this way.” I had become an expert at making associations between things, creating relationships between objects and processes where others saw distinctly separate and unrelated objects or processes.

I began indexing the text and found my skills worked even better while shrooming. It was likely the Hawaiians because this trip had vastly different qualities than my experiences with Ecuadorians and McKennai. I wondered if my indexes would become increasingly complex and if I would be even more judicious in the associations I made. There was so much to process that I stopped indexing and went to the couch to sit wordlessly the rest of the night.

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.