Amsterdam Forty-Eight: Leidseplein Busking

Cold and rain. Another indexing day. I was making good progress, nearly finished. The visit thus far had been balanced between work, socializing, and shrooming. I felt content. My body was loose. My body was learning a new language, the language of sensation and there was plenty of whispering between muscles and joints: “Did you hear what Big Toe did last night? He won the battle against language! He got noticed by awareness! That’s huge!” Relaxed as the body was I could tell there was tremendous excitement throughout as long lost relatives were being reunited with one another. My knees never thought they would hear from my hips ever again but now they hugging and laughing, sharing stories about what they had been doing since they had last talked years and years ago. A family reunion, the family of my body. The heart was pumping extra blood and everyone was a little high from the extra oxygen.

I learned that the body had often complained about my activities without being noticed by my mind: “Fuck, he’s watching another movie! It’s three in the morning, go to bed! We’re fucking tired. Eyes are strained, neck is aching, and we haven’t moved in seven hours. What the fuck? No, not more buttered popcorn! Are you fucking kidding? Hello? Ah, shit. The mind zoned out again. We’re screwed.” The body was celebrating now, though. I received thank you notes from everywhere. My shoulder blades were as thrilled as my ankles.

In unison they gave my awareness a message: “You’ve been doing great. We’re proud of you and grateful that you’re finally being attentive again. It’s been years. But the last three months, shit, you’ve been walking, cycling, dancing, and moving around like a teenager. Keep it up! Um, one thing, though: You’re not a teenager. Could you please stretch more, especially in the morning when you wake and after a lot of movement? We know, it’s a lot to ask given that you’ve made so many other changes, but it would really help us out and the mind would be even sharper. We’re asking because you let the mind make decisions and, well, the mind is fucking stupid. It really doesn’t know shit. It can’t even tell when we’re getting dehydrated. We’re not trying to be mean, it’s just that we know a lot more than the mind about these things so, well, do what you’ve been doing, being more attentive to how we feel rather than exclusively focusing on what the mind thinks. That cool?”

Yeah, it was cool. I let the body know I needed to be attentive to indexing the rest of the morning, but that good food was coming, some stretching, and maybe even a walk. As I started typing my fingers said to me, “Dude, you have no idea how much damage you’ve done to us over the years. You have to do more hand exercises. We’ve been damaged, man, and it doesn’t just affect us. We’re attached through ligaments and muscles to your forearms, elbows, biceps and triceps, shoulders, and, hell the rest of the body. Your back has been bitching, too, because it hates the posture you use at the computer. The pain doesn’t seem that bad to you, but that’s only because we’ve been wearing down gradually and you’ve gotten used to it. Things are going to get a lot worse if you don’t make some changes while you’re working. Hey, man, the mind is in this with us even if it doesn’t realize it. You ain’t gonna be able to think straight in a decade or two if you let the spine go to hell. It took a pounding as a teenager what with you thrashing the body around like it was indestructible. Dude, time passes and the body you broke ain't gonna get better without attention. Just letting you know.”

As jubilant as the body was after receiving so much more attention, it had a long list of grievances it registered with my mind. I dutifully took notes, allowing the body to direct the mind for a change. After doing so, I received permission to continue indexing, being more attentive to my posture and the use of my hands. It was not easy to make the changes. I had been working in a certain way for years and ergonomics had not played much of a role. It was going to take time and diligence.

Overall, though, I felt good. My body was relaxed and my mind was sharp. Discovering these new body projects made me happy. I felt engaged with my being. Indexing provided an income, but my body and mind were finally being recognized as more important than anything else. I didn’t know how the hell I was led to believe that anything else was more important. Stupid ideas about work, achievement, money, and success. Enough.

I took a deep breath and got back to work. I came across a mention of the “Symptoms of Peace.” The top ten? In no particular order:

1.       Spontaneity

2.       Smiling

3.       Laughter

4.       Appreciation

5.       Nonjudgmentalness

6.       Connectedness

7.       Reciprocity

8.       Acceptance

9.       Allowance

10.   Enjoyment

These were symptoms I experienced daily. I was peaceful … or within peace. At peace? I suppose. If peace had to exist at a location, Amsterdam was as good as any. People were trying to find “peace within” but if peace could only be found “at” then they needed to move their bodies to the place where peace was. Who the hell knew? It was quite obvious that language didn’t know shit about peace because it couldn’t figure out whether it was “within” or “at.” Could it be found “within” and “at”? If so, was finding peace “within” insufficient unless it was also “at”? If the symptoms were correct—I didn’t know if the person or organization that made up these symptoms were properly qualified to understand anything about peace, but I liked the list—then I was within and at peace. Maybe awareness, when functioning properly, was a porous membrane allowing peace to flow inside and out, within and at, while expelling toxins such as frustration or disgust and protecting against external threats such as rudeness or condescension. Amsterdam was a far better environment for peace than, say, Los Angeles.

I continued indexing until noon then made a hearty salad. I took time to gently stretch then went back to work for another hour. I finished the index around two and sent a copy to the publisher as well as an invoice. Now I was completely at peace. I said, “Body, we’re taking the rest of the day off. What do you want to do?” I looked out the window and it was raining lightly. “Shall we go for a walk?” No objections so I put on shoes and coat, grabbed keys and wallet, and picked up the umbrella by the door.

On the street, I opened the umbrella and turned toward Utrechtsestraat. I bowed my head, shuffle-stepped, and tipped a cap I wasn’t wearing whenever I passed another walker. There were responses, I think they were positive, but I paid little attention. My attitude consumed my awareness, it permeated my being. This was something besides peace—what the fuck is attitude? I knew emotions, feelings, and thoughts … but attitude? And what about mood? Ah, shit on a broomstick, fuck a donkey in the ear, bleed out on a sidewalk, curl up next to a hose, lick a broken toenail, and wipe a door handle with a spoon. This was not a time for pondering the meanings of words. This was a walk and I felt chippy, a little snimshabby, partially dwally, a mixture of gooseflesh and fimfaddle.

If there were going to be clichés and sayings then I wanted to make my own. Not a single cliché should mean anything; the clichés of the future were to be composed of nonsense and by uttering gibberish everyone would know that a cliché was meant even if no one knew anything about what was being conveyed. By creating confusion, everyone present would become more engaged, each desperate to escape from the uncertainty of what was meant. “When you say, ‘a turd falls from my hand’ do you mean that you’re going to ‘make hay’ or lay something out ‘flat as a pancake’?” My response would likely be, “Piddle where you know and little there you go.” There was no need for anyone to understand. We were pretending to know what the hell we were saying to each other, anyway, but we had all been so full of shit for so long it was impossible to keep up the charade. Thousands upon thousands of years had passed with no one understanding a thing about anything, themselves or anyone else, so why bother?

There needed to be more gibberish and absurdity passed between one another. I made my first attempt to start the trend after crossing Vijzelstraat. A well-dressed middle-aged man, quite attractive as per usual, neared me as he strode under his umbrella. I adopted a cockney accent and said, “Bit of a warlop jugging out the dolly, ay?” He looked at me as if I had told him a shiny toy was waiting for him at home or perhaps the look was that of a man who had been wondering where he left his comb two days ago. I couldn’t interpret the meaning of his facial expression and that was the point. If there was any way of knowing I would have said, “Good day, sir,” as I walked past. It was much more fun confronting strangers with loud facial expressions, wild gestures, and meaningless jargon.

I stopped in front of a metal garage door on Kerkstraat not too far past Vijzelstraat and fancied myself a real-life Liliom, better known as Billy Bigelow—if, indeed, he was better known—a barker extraordinaire, and I exhorted those passing by to listen as I spoke. “Ladies and Jokes, I have right here, a thrilling gate you all must hate, for behind it, my friends, is a beer. To pass this door, there is a lock that to open needs a cock, or so goes the lore. If you pass on this and roam away, you’ll miss everything you hold dear. Nothing that you do or say is likely to be anything but sheer … delight. Or fright. Please, dibble yourselves with juice and dumplings, pass the potatoes and make a scrunching; if you don’t mind, I’ll take four or more, make it six because I’ve grown bored.” With that I turned and marched away, kicking my legs high in the air while purposefully whistling out of tune.

I left behind a smattering of men and women. I heard chatter, but understood none of it as they were speaking Dutch. I thought that made us even because not a damn thing I said was understandable at all … even by me. I wasn’t sure if I was within and at peace; it seemed more as if I was within and at play. Play, as far as I could tell, was of a higher order altogether than peace.

As I kept walking I came upon Conscious Dreams. Well, why the fuck not? I prepared myself for entry by doing calisthenics: Jumping jacks, running in place, lunges, squats, and a cooling off period. I paid little attention to the gawkers laughing. No doubt the people around me had never seen such a routine before entry into a smart shop. I hoped the practice would catch on over time.

I walked in confidently, head held high while taking ridiculously long strides to the counter. There was one fellow ahead of me deliberating over which shrooms to purchase. A few potential customers were looking about at different items throughout the shop. I stood a few feet behind the chap and took the opportunity to continue warming up for my turn. I wanted my body and mind to be in optimal condition to utter a few words to the woman behind the counter. She was talking with the gent, but she was also watching me hop and flail my arms, “hooing” my breath rather loudly. She looked at first disturbed--possibly because the look on my face was so serious--but then just confusion.

Having sufficiently wooed the young woman with golden brown hair—a very odd mixture, for sure—I proceeded to spread my legs wide and touched my toes with opposite hands, “hooing” each time I returned to an upright position. The poor woman couldn’t help herself and let out a yelp of laughter. The bloke in front of me turned around, but by then I had assumed a relaxed standing posture, my body and face nonchalant, bored. I lifted my hand close to my face and curled it to look at my fingernails. The Australian turned back to purchase a dose of Thai.

I hadn’t tried the Thai. It was along the lines of the Colombian in the sense that it was considered to be of moderate strength. After the male paid and walked away with his bag of shrooms, he looked back at me, perhaps wondering if I was mocking him. I walked up to the counter and smiled at the young woman. I allowed my smile to linger as I looked into her eyes. Such pretty eyes, hazel. A rounded face, cute puffy cheeks. She smiled back at me creating heart-melting dimples in her cheeks. I sighed and said, “My God, your dimples. How much do you want for them? I’ll give a hundred Euros for each.” The dimples sunk in deeper as she laughed, but winked back as she reverted to a smile.

“You probably want to keep those—I know I would—so I’ll go with two doses of Hawaiian and one dose of Thai. She nodded her head and pursed her lips in an apparent attempt not to smile. She bent down to pull out the doses and as she did she exposed the entirety of her cleavage through the wide neckline of her loose-fitting t-shirt. She wore a scanty bra and those breasts, damn, so soft and supple, too firm to dangle, half moons of tender white flesh begging to be cupped by a pair of hands, hers being closest but mine far more eager. I sighed and thanked the heavens for glass-encased counters. She rose up and I saw how her hips curved to hold up her blue jeans. Her body suggested sex, but her face exuded adorable cuteness. I never knew what to do with that combination. My emotions were so confused. I wanted to hug her to heaven and fuck her to hell.

As she was counting the money and retrieving my change she said, “Do you always do exercises before buying shrooms?” I sighed. “That’s privileged information. But I don’t know you at all so I can trust you. It’s a new regimen to help me get into the proper mindset to make the best shrooming choices possible. Shroom shopping is not a frivolous act.” I raised my hands to the outsides my eyes as she looked up. “It’s about focus, training the mind and body, getting in sync with the inner core of my being.” I loosened my face and body. She shook her head and raised her eyebrows. “Whatever works, I guess.” I slapped my hand down on the counter. “Exactly! You get it. It’s about what works for me. It’s all about me. You’re the first person I’ve met who understands. Amazing. You must be very special to see that. You should feel special. Mostly because of the dimples. My offer still stands. One hundred per. Think about it.”

I bid her adieu, walked out the door, and headed toward Leidseplein. By the time I arrived the rain had ceased. There wasn’t much of a crowd given that it was the weekend, but that was likely due to the weather. The Leidseplein square was a favorite spot for talented buskers. In years past I had seen a young shirtless guy with the greatest of beards and the wildest hair standing on top of a VW van juggling three revving chainsaws, going behind his back occasionally, performing all manner of juggling maneuvers. The crowd around his van was huge. I had also seen sword swallowers, fire breathers, fantastical story tellers, gymnasts contorting their bodies and performing amazing acrobatics, talented break-dancers, musicians, and more.

The square was empty, though, busker-free. I contemplated performing in some way. Even though Leidseplein was empty, performances at this spot were high quality. I also didn’t know if there was a busker code or a busker community determining who performed and when. I walked around the outer edges of the square. There may not have been many meandering, but there was enough pedestrian traffic to gather an audience if the performance was intriguing. What would I do, though? Uttering gibberish was not going to cut it at this location. I knew no acrobatics or physical tricks to attract attention. Calisthenics would be ridiculous. I could purposefully perform badly in numerous ways while appearing to be entirely serious, projecting a belief that what I was doing was amazing and worthy of everyone’s attention.

I decided against that, though. I didn’t have the energy to do that. Earlier I could have, but I had used up a lot of my juice. Besides, the point of play isn’t to impress or entertain; it’s to enjoy and share. If there’s any self-consciousness in play then it isn’t play at all. I was playing earlier because I didn’t really care how others reacted. The spirit of my play was for enjoyment and since it wasn’t at the expense of anyone else I didn’t care whether I was being judged. If I had given it that much thought I wouldn’t have done any of it. Nothing defeats playful spontaneity as effectively as analysis.

I may not have had the juice to play like I was earlier, but I still wanted to play. As I stood in the middle of the Leidseplein, I thought about how I had played as a child, about how friends and neighbors picked up the slack when my energy waned and how I picked up the slack when their energy dipped. I wondered, “What if I ask others to play? Something easy, something inviting. That would be an interesting challenge and might get the juices flowing again. I could ask someone to do mundane things, things so simple that anyone could do them.”

I reached in my pocket and pulled out all of my change. I had eight coins: a two-Euro coin, three one-Euro coins, one fifty-cent Euro coin, two twenty-cent Euro coins, and one ten-cent Euro coin. What if I “reverse busked” by convincing passersby to perform and giving them a gratuity as if they were the buskers? Hmmm ... converting an ordinary person into a busker for a short time, showering them with praise, seeing what happens? Not a bad idea. If the rain started again, well, I would open my umbrella and walk away.

I looked around the square again, onto the streets, across the way. I haphazardly counted thirty people; some were walking away and some were walking toward. The flow seemed regular, constant. I needed to stand on the edge of the square nearest Leidsestraat. That was where most were walking when the trams weren’t riding by. I put down my bag of shrooms and umbrella then walked over and stretched my arms high in the air, trying to make myself as big as I could, trying to be seen. I became a barker once again, jumping up and down and waving my arms above my head while bellowing, “Everyone, please, gather round! There is something I need to share with you, to show you, to beg of you! Will it be a song of silence? A mood you can touch? A moment to the more? There’s only one way to know—come and see the show!”

As I belted out the last line I had a flash of the ELP song, “Karn Evil 9.” I knew the lyrics pretty well as it was one of my favorite songs. It was perfect for attracting a crowd. I continued, raising my voice, becoming louder, mixing the lyrics I remembered with flourishes of my own, “Come, let me set you free … from your banality, to help the refugee … from the worst of humanity. Come on, step inside, I’ve got thrills and shocks, supersonic fighting cocks, separate from the flocks, and let your body rock!”

I stopped hopping and twirled toward the middle of the square, ending with a cartwheel—which I pulled off far better than I ever imagined I could. I hadn’t done a cartwheel for probably a decade. That was the beauty of spontaneity, though—I performed better if I didn’t know what was coming next. Instinct, intuition. I waved my arm, gesturing to the few who were looking from afar, “If you follow me there’s a speciality, no tears for you or me, not a blink of reality! Next upon the bill in this house of vaudeville, is the popping of a pill! What a thrill, what a thrill.”

My smile grew wider, my eyes driving wilder, my body a frenzy of gusto and thrust, my voice filled with lust: “Not content with that, with my hands behind my back, I pull Jesus from a hat—get in to that, get into that. Imagine behind a glass stands a real blade of grass; be careful as you pass, move along, move along.” I moved as if walking to another exhibit, gesturing to the growing crowd to follow. I saw curious faces.

“Come and see the show, it’s a dynamo! You’ve got to see-eeee the show … or you’ll never knowwwwww. Soon the gypsy queen in a glaze of Vaseline will perform on guillotine, what a scene, what a scene. Coming right after that a big, furry cat dropped into a vat where a homeless beggar shat!” I laughed maniacally as the crowd recoiled. “Oh, you don’t want that? Maybe a baseball bat lying on a mat where the Buddha sat! Or a performance on a stool, a sight to make you drool, seven virgins and a mule … keep it cool, keep it cool.”

I slowed my movements and drooped my head as I stopped. I looked up and around at the group gathered, maybe a dozen. A few started clapping and whistling, but I put my hands up and commanded: “Wait!” The meager applause stopped and there was silence. I looked at the faces and saw smiles, giggles, impatience, and shaking of heads. I shifted gears and said calmly while clasping my hands together one on top of the other, using the bend of my torso and head from the hips and neck, relying on soft facial expressions to convey whatever meanings were not evident in the words: “I abide all comers, welcome strangers, cherish wanderers. I drink in their flavor, consider their character, leaving them with an enlightened freedom and an engorged liberty. If this results in a communitarian spirit then let there be generous hugs. When we are through, look about you to reflect on the evidence of the past, the temper of the present, and visions of the future. This is your reality.”

I gradually quickened my pace, noticing more gathering round. I gestured toward the new arrivals, “Come hither, wander, whither you will. Smile devilishly or at least try to grin. Cancel your plans, hop on the flow, it’s here you must go! Don’t hesitate; no need to wonder. Climb aboard and you’ll know. A wonderful world awaits as long as you choose anything but straight! Is there a destination, something that awaits? We may never know. Are we on a ride past no return, a trip to the edge of the mind, a light dimming in the dark of uncertainty, or a time and a place when and where nothing is understood?” I paused, turned away from the crowd, and said, “Your choice.” I turned back, “Mine, too, of course. Always is.”

I took a deep breath as I walked in a small circle with my head down, an arm behind my back, and a hand on my chin. “If my voice is a siren drawing you near, I may send you spinning, untethered yet again. If you wake from your stupor and come back in control, you may find yourself itching for whatever came before.” I stopped and looked at the group. “No matter, though, because what comes is only ever what comes next.” I took on a more pleading tone and body language, “We can pass signs seen in lifetimes past! There’s a special kind of strangeness on this ride. Do you feel it clearing cobwebs from your mind? Are you filling up with feelings you could never ignore?” I softened and tilted my head, a far off look of wonder: “It’s a fine how-do-you-do when the knock you hear is you. How might it be, me meeting me?”

I clapped my hands together, stood on my toes, and said, “Okay, now that I have your attention, it is indeed time to start the show. Yes, yes, that was just the introduction to the real thing. This show, you see, is not about me.” I waved my arm to the crowd. “May I have a volunteer? Anyone, really, you all seem capable. Nothing too disturbing, nothing causing too much fright or even scarring you for life. I believe, in fact, that you may even enjoy yourself! Oh my! You see, whoever steps forward will gain two things if he or she is able to complete a simple task: one, a sense of accomplishment and, two,” I reached into my pocket to retrieve the coins, “A coin. The coins range in value from ten cents to two Euros. The coin any one of you receives may or may not be determined by the difficulty of the task you successfully perform. Failure to accomplish the task, I warn you, may result in a hug or a pat on the back.”

I looked around and prompted, “Do I have a volunteer?” Some from the early crowd had moved along, but there were also newcomers. It was hard to say how many were present, maybe 20. A young woman with short brown hair stepped forward. She was bundled in a warm black coat and a white scarf. “Excellent, excellent.” As she stepped next to me, I put my arm around her shoulders. “And your name is?” She shyly said, “Julia.” I removed my arm and gestured to the crowd, “Everyone, a round of applause for Julia, a courageous woman if ever there was one. Yes, yes, very good.” I was amazed at how my playfulness had engaged the crowd. They clapped enthusiastically. I turned back to Julia and asked, “Where are you from, Julia?” She said, “The United States. Denver, Colorado.” I nodded, “Ah, an American. Excellent. Welcome to Amsterdam. Is this your first time?” She nodded her head. “Yes. I’m studying in London and we’re here for a few days.” She motioned to the crowd and two women beamed good vibes while waving with excitement.”

I said to Julia, “I am going to ask you to do something that may or may not be something you want to do. It might be difficult or it might be very easy. There’s no way of knowing yet. I haven’t decided which task to give you because I don’t yet have a sense of who you are, what you like, and what you don’t. Please, tell all of us one thing about you that captures who you are as well as one thing you like and one thing you don’t. Be honest. We’re all in this together, Julia! We’re rooting for you, on the tips of our toes, intrigued by your presence, desperate to know you, to hear about your likes and dislikes. Why? Because we love you, of course. You are, at this moment, surrounded by the love of all who are present. Isn't that right?" I turned to the audience and they cheered, her friends screaming, "We love you, Julia!" I turned back to Julia and said, "You are standing in a cone of loving protection. You are so safe right now, cuddled under the coziest blankets of goodness the world has ever known, absolutely adored by the heart of the universe." Julia seemed overwhelmed, but fully engaged—being in front of an expectant crowd can do that.

“Take your time, whenever you’re ready.” Julia stood and looked around, looking a bit nervous as she saw the number of people watching. I began whistling the “Jeopardy” tune which made her and some in the crowd laugh. Good, release of tension. She took a deep breath and said, “I really love reading. I’m studying Victorian literature so I guess one thing I really like is reading.” I interjected. “Ah, see, you killed two birds with one stone.” Julia continued, “I don’t like rudeness.” I nodded and said, “Well, that’s unusual. A very brave stand you’ve taken disliking rudeness. Most people, far as I know, prefer to be treated rudely. But good for you for taking a stand!” I turned to the crowd, clapping my hands, “Julia, everyone, lover of reading and hater of rudeness!” I whistled and the group laughed and clapped. I noticed Julia was blushing, embarrassed. I softened and said, “It’s all in good fun. Here, watch and follow my lead.” I titled my head back, closed my eyes, ran slowly in place and shook out my arms. I heard the crowd laugh so I crooked open an eye to look at Julia while continuing to move. Sure enough, she was doing the same thing. Synchronized loosening of the body, undoubtedly a future Olympic event.

I stopped and touched Julia’s arm to let her know she could relax. I raised my hands as I turned toward the crowd. I asked them, “Do you want Julia to perform a task related to reading or rudeness?” I looked back at Julia, her face a mix of shock, dismay, and amusement. She put a hand—a white mitten—to her face but kept smiling. Her friends barked out, “Rudeness!” The crowd entirely agreed. I said, “Very well, very well. I believe we have a unanimous decision.” I turned to Julia with all of the melodramatic overacting of Regis Philbin hosting Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. “Julia.” I walked around her in a circle. “Are you … ready … to perform a task that will result in,” I dramatically held a coin high above my head, “a coin and perhaps the greatest sense of achievement you are likely to experience in your entire life?!” Julia balked while the crowd chanted her name. I heard a few yell, “Come on, Julia! You can do it!” There was one “You can do it” that sounded like Rob Schneider from the movie The Waterboy.

I folded my hands and bent down a little so I was looking directly into her eyes just a foot away. “Julia … you do not like rudeness. Remember, this is a task you will perform … you don’t have to worry one bit about anyone being rude to you. Not at all. However,” I paused dramatically, “in order for you to really understand why you don’t like rudeness, I want you,” I paused and turned to look at the crowd, to soak up their anticipation; I couldn’t help but smile widely and laugh a little as I turned back to Julia, “to say three incredibly rude things to me! Just three sentences, rat-a-tat-tat.” I looked at her and saw she was clasping her mittens together and looking toward her friends in the crowd, as if she was on the Price Is Right wondering how much to bid on … a brand new washing machine! “Well, what do you say, Julia? I’ve got a coin in my hand right now. I don’t know which coin it is, but it’s yours if you can explode with three mean, nasty, hateful statements about me. Get every last drop of ugliness out of your system, feel what it’s like to be rude! Then—and only then—will you know whether you truly dislike rudeness.”

I raised my eyebrows and waited. Julia shook her head and pleaded with a nervous smile on her face, hopping a little and shaking her arms as if she had just squished a dozen worms with bare feet, “Oh my god, this is horrible. I can’t be rude to you, I just, I can’t!” The audience that had gathered—and grown in size—cajoled Julia. I gently put my hands on her arms and looked her in the eye. “It’s okay, Julia. I want you to be rude to me—and they want you to be rude to me. Just three sentences then it will all be over. You can do it. I know this is difficult for you, but everyone is rooting for you. You’ll be filled with so much joy and relief when you’re done that you’ll be walking on clouds the rest of the day.” I gave her a special look, deep into her eyes, the type of look I sometimes had given Vanessa when I was hungry for her. I licked my lips and raised my eyebrows again, nodding my head, encouraging her, drinking her in, willfully pulling latent rudeness from her as I let go of her arms.

Julia squeezed her eyes shut and thrust her arms straight down with clenched fists then furiously spewed venom at me: “You are a filthy piece of shit! I hate your fucking guts and I wish you’d never been born, you motherfucking asshole!” Holy shit! I doubled over laughing and I could hear the crowd erupt. I stood up straight and saw Julia holding her mittens over her mouth, her eyes wide as hubcaps. She was muttering, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I couldn’t stop laughing and the audience was whooping as well. I hugged her and she hugged back. I released her, raised one of her mittened hands with mine, and announced, “Julia, everyone! Julia!” Cheers and applause.

I turned to Julia and asked, “How do you feel?” She meekly shrieked and covered her entire face in her mittens. I couldn’t stop laughing. I said loudly, “Julia, you were so awesome that I’m going to give you all of the coins!” I pulled a mitten from her face and placed the coins in it. She smiled, her face beet red with a great mix of embarrassment, relief, and excitement. Her friends ran up to her and hugged her, hopping up and down. I turned to the audience and said, “Everyone, thank you for coming, watching, and participating. I am late for a very important date so I’m afraid the show is over.” The crowd awwwed with a couple boos—a good sign. I said, “I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Until we meet again!” Applause then a gradual dispersal. I grabbed my bag of shrooms and umbrella then turned and exaggeratedly skipped toward Kerkstraat. I turned my head to Julia and her friends as I bounded away. “The world is now yours, Julia!”

National Security

Republican Panel Press Conference on CIA Torture Report

U.S. Senator (R-KY) Mitch McConnell: We will accept questions now.

Reporter #1: Senator McConnell, you recently claimed that the CIA report released by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence would harm national security. Can you explain how the release of this information will harm national security?

McConnell: That information is classified.

Reporter #1: How the release of the document harms national security is classified?

McConnell: That’s correct.

Reporter #2: Which government body has classified explanations of how the release of the CIA report harms national security?

Former U.S. Vice President Dick Cheney: That’s a matter of national security.

Reporter #2: Stating the name of the government agency that has made explanations of how the CIA report harms national security is … a matter of national security?

Cheney: Correct.

Reporter #3: How has exposing the CIA interrogation techniques harmed national security?

U.S. Senator (R-SC) Lindsey Graham: That question was answered earlier by Senator McConnell. It’s classified.

Reporter # 4: Doesn’t the public have a right to know how the government conducts investigations?

Cheney: That’s a matter of national security.

Reporter #4: So, transparency in government is a threat to national security?

Graham. That information is classified.

Reporter #1: Is there anything that is not classified or a matter of national security?

McConnell: We can’t answer that question at this time.

Reporter #1: Why?

Graham: That’s a matter of national security.

Reporter #1: You can’t tell the public what is NOT classified or a matter of national security? Not even one example?

Cheney: What is or is not classified is a matter of national security. What is or is not a matter of national security is classified.

Reporter #5: Have any of you read Joseph Heller’s Catch-22?

Cheney: That's a matter of national security.

McConnell: That information is classified.

Graham: I cannot answer that question at this time.

Amsterdam Forty-Seven: The Petty Princess

I wanted a pastry. I dressed and grabbed my laptop carrier and an umbrella as it was raining. The rain fell straight down, heavy drops, no wind. It was damp rather than cold. I walked peacefully without pace. The few I passed under umbrellas were similarly meandering, but those without scrunched their shoulders with hands in pockets, heads bent down, faces tightened, and eyes squinting. They were approaching misery as if it was their intended destination.

At the end of the block, I turned south from Kerkstraat onto Utrechtsestraat. I crossed the street diagonally, jogging a bit to get out of the way of a tiny Smart Car. Once I was on the sidewalk, I watched it putter over the Prinsengracht bridge, its engine muttering “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” I probably would have done more damage to it if it had hit me. “Well, I seem to have a slight bruise on my knee. Sorry about your mangled one-seater.” Golf carts were probably cheaper and just as fast. Still, I loved the Smart Cars. They were so wonderfully tiny. They were still a novelty for me at the time as they were still rare even in most urban areas of the U.S. I wanted to pick one up and carry it under my arm as I walked throughout the city.

I walked out of the rain into a bakery, Patisserie Kuyt, at the end of the block on Utrechtsestraat. I waited in a long line, absentmindedly looking at the pastries on display. Well, those within my vision as the many in line blocked my view. I could also see that there was a separate glass-encased display with even more goodies. The bakery was all clean lines with whites, oranges, and lime greens. Plenty of light from the large window next to the door. The space was narrow, but long. I couldn’t see how long because a partial wall jutted out to block my view. I had to move several times to allow people to walk through, going either in or out. Behind me were several chairs at a high bar, the chairs tall with a back to lean against. Interestingly, the backs and seats of the chairs were made of glass. Different. I liked different. The wall was white, lit by lights built into the wall, lights covered by a black obtrusion—a design aesthetic—emitting a glow above and below. There were other lights higher up, tiny soft white lights also built on the walls. High ceilings. Throughout the bakery I saw track lighting as well.

Interior designs fascinated me and Utrechtsestraat was a wonderful street for interior design. Like all buildings in the older areas of Amsterdam, the storefronts were narrow at the street but ran deep front-to-back. Everything within this place was rectangled, cubed, ninety degree angles, white, orange, lime green, and black, a four-color scheme; the floor was black, but otherwise black was used on the walls only as highlights or, as I walked beyond the half wall losing my spot in line, part of the faces of white-masked women with orange lips, huge orange-flowered hats, and a chaos of orange flowers surrounding their faces on the sides and under their chins with black appearing again to provide some relief from the explosion of orange. Surrounding this long image on the wall, perhaps four by sixteen feet, was lime green: above, below, and on either side, a wall of lime-green giving way to a white ceiling and a black floor.

I walked to the back of the line noticing the lights hanging from the ceiling here and there, gathered in bunches, long thin white broomsticks holding half-globed golden halos a foot or two wide to soften the yellowed-glow. Ah, more colors, the dulled metallic gold and the yellowed light as well as mid-ranged brown wood-grained tabletops in the back half of the patisserie. So, seven colors. I felt like the Count from Sesame Street, “One color, two colors, three colors, four colors, …”

I stood in line, again, waiting. No rush, no impatience, just observant waiting. People with umbrellas, mostly young people in their twenties it seemed. A couple women at the bar drinking coffee and eating pastries while looking at their smart phones. Everyone—every single person, man or woman—dressed with style. I looked around outside the window to see if there was a fashion shoot or a nearby studio for photographing men and women wearing expensive clothing. Nope. Just the culture of Utrechtsestraat.

While looking outside, I saw another Smart Car put-put past the window. I thought I saw the guy inside thrusting forward in his seat toward the steering wheel, possibly trying to will the car to go faster. I tried to suppress my laughter, but the image along with my mind at play? It was too fucking funny. The woman in line ahead of me turned around to glare at me as I laughed. Only … it wasn’t a glare. It was a look of utter boredom, the look of a woman who had been living for hundreds of thousands of years and was absolutely exhausted by her continued existence. Her blank face said, “I haven’t laughed in ten thousand years. What could possibly be funny now?” I wanted to tell her I hadn’t even lived forty years, that I was an infant in comparison, still capable of being amused by sights and sounds and smells and … everything.

She looked away before I could say anything. If I had seen her face in a magazine I probably would have thought she was beautiful. However, her face in person wasn’t as lifelike as magazine images so she elicited no more of a response from me than a mannequin would. Maybe that was her job; she was a mannequin walking the streets in stylish clothes day after day, never changing expression, never interested in anything, never alive while working. Maybe at night, after she clocked out, she was wild and whimsical, full of stories with a million differing facial expressions and a billion gestures, a verbal and nonverbal dynamo capable of capturing the spirit of every man, woman, and child, a woman so charismatic she could lead both saints and sinners to their deaths with brilliant tales of what it was like to drown in a canal. Invisibly dressed to the nines by day and visibly present everywhere by night while gallivanting in rags to the delight of all.

She was indeed dressed well. She wore a lime-green wool coat, an orange scarf, black pants and boots, and a white purse dangling from her forearm. I paused for a moment, thinking. I looked around the bakery and—no! “Are you shitting me?!” Jesus fucking fuck. I could feel it bubbling within me, a fit of laughter coming. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. When it burst forth it puffed her ironed-straight blonde hair. Again, she turned around. For a second—just a moment—she looked angry. Her eyes shifted back to ennui so quickly I wondered if the look of anger was a hallucination. I said, “Pardone,” in the best French accent I could afford on a middle-class income. She was turning away as I apologized, my sincerity equivalent to hers. Well, no, that wasn’t true. She had hundreds of thousands of years on me and her insincerity was impeccable.

The line was making progress. I saw what I wanted—a chocolate croissant. There were still three people ahead and I figured the woman in front of me would either be very fast with her order or perhaps wait centuries to utter a word to the server, expecting to be understood without having to say a word. She had that mystique about her and I thought of the Hans Christian Andersen story, The Princess and the Pea.

I turned away from her as I heard a familiar muffled sound from outside. Sure enough, the put-put belonged to a Smart Car. Three Smart Cars on Utrechtsestraat in fifteen or twenty minutes. Well, I wasn’t sure exactly how much time had elapsed while standing behind the Princess. I should have been more awed that I was in the presence of royalty, but the third Smart Car fascinated me much more. Had every vehicle in Amsterdam been replaced overnight? Were the drivers all going to a Smart Car flash mob in the Museumplein? Had Shriners upgraded their little motor carts to Smart Cars on their way to a parade? The possibilities were endless.

I wondered what would happen if the whole world shifted to bumper cars. It seemed like a decent idea. How much more fun would it be to be stuck in traffic on an expressway inside a bumper car? There would still be people complaining, though: “My car only goes to the left! I keep circling to the left and everybody keeps ramming into me while laughing maniacally. This isn’t fun anymore!” A carnie would have to shut down the electricity and run onto the freeway to fix the woman’s defective car while everyone else gave her the stink eye for interrupting the fun. There certainly wouldn’t be any more drive-by shootings; where would the perpetrator go? There would probably still be shootings, though. Some guy who’d had a bad day would get pissed that he kept getting smashed by other drivers then whip out a Glock to blow people away. That wouldn’t happen too often, though, as the guy would empty his clip pretty fast and all those in nearby bumper cars who hadn’t been shot would run over to him to stomp his ass to death. News helicopters would cover the scene from above, an “on-the-spot” reporter using that “professional sensationalism” voice that broadcasters had long ago mastered would bleat over the radio: “I’m on the scene looking down at what appears to be a man in a blue bumper car being brutally beaten to death by a fiercely angry mob. A listener on the freeway going by the name of ‘KatieBPretty6’ just texted that the man in the blue bumper car had fired at least a dozen shots before being mauled by vicious vigilantes. No word yet on how many have been killed or injured, but oh my, the carnage is unlike anything I've seen in my weeks of on-the-scene reporting. We've just received word that police driving Mario Karts and clown cars are on their way now. Back to you, Jim.”

The Princess of Pettiness was fast after all. Instead of the croissant, though, I ordered a double espresso and “Miserable,” a hazelnut almond biscuit with rich vanilla cream. I stepped to the side and waited. I looked around to find out where Petty was sitting so I could find a spot as far from her as possible. The tables were all filled and, shit, she was at the bar, the only place left to sit. Fuck. I walked over with my drink and pastry. Fortunately, there were two empty seats; I chose the one furthest from her and set up laptop. At least each seat afforded ample bar-top space.

“Miserable” made me anything but. An extraordinary amount of flavor in something so small. I indexed as I sipped my espresso, staying a couple hours to work. As the clock approached noon, I packed up and left Pattisserie Kuyt. The rain had died down, now just a mist, not enough to bother with an umbrella. It was warm enough, comparably, that the mist felt good and yet still cold enough that the air felt light. I walked with a bounce in my step, bounding so enthusiastically by the time I turned the corner onto Kerkstraat that I thought I had accidentally stepped in Flubber. Well, better Flubber than dog shit.

One nasty thing about Amsterdam was the abundance of dog shit on the streets and sidewalks. The etiquette of scooping up the shit of one’s dog had not yet reached Amsterdam. Instead, dog owners stood proudly by Boxers, Irish Wolfhounds, Labrador Retrievers, and Chows as they dropped turds both large and small nearly everywhere people walked. They smiled while looking around as if they wanted to catch the attention of anyone in the area so that they could witness the miracle of poop plopping from the asshole of a Pug. I had once walked by a woman speaking Dutch to her mutt, apparently trying to tell the little thing, “Don’t shit over there; no one will step in it! Come over here, right in the middle of the sidewalk. There you go. Good boy, you are such a good little boy. Momma loves you, yes she does, yes she does.” Fucking dog walkers.

When I got back to my apartment I made soup and a sandwich. I indexed most of the afternoon, taking breaks to write and study a little Dutch, just long enough to be able to forget everything I learned by the next morning. It rained on and off throughout the afternoon. The rain made me feel cozy while indexing, partially because of the soft, soothing sounds and partially because I knew I wasn’t missing anything outdoors while working. I ate around four-thirty, a frozen dinner popped into the microwave, then continued working until six.

I stopped and considered my options. I could go out in the rain, explore the city, find a new café or club, head over to Bloem, or … I could stay dry in my apartment while shrooming. I opened the fridge and pulled out the Colombians. I ate them with a couple scoops of peanut butter and water to wash them down. I almost ate the McKennaii as well, but I decided to wait. Maybe when I felt the first effects of the Colombians.

I didn’t do anything to prepare, no special ritual. I remembered what my “whole self” had mentioned last time. He could do the work himself. Of course, that was with Hawaiians. Who knew which self would come into being on Colombians. I loaded a bowl of Super Lemon Haze and took a couple puffs then opened the window to have a cigarette. Everything felt smoother as the rough edges grew more freely. Fuck trimming them. They needed wild growth not manicuring.

There wasn’t a person on the street. First time I had seen that. Weird for such an early hour even with the rain. I noticed it was heavier now, a real downpour. I saw a car motoring from Utrechtsestraat toward my apartment and the Magere Brug. It wasn’t a Smart Car. That made me sad for a moment. I was hoping the world had transitioned to a uniformity of Smart Cars with everyone driving a single-seat car. What about the kids? Fuck the children. They could take public transportation, ride bikes, or walk. No need to plump up anyone under eighteen. Redesign the fucking cities if it wasn’t feasible to get around without a car. Wasn’t my damn idea to build cities and suburbs without trains, bike lanes, or sidewalks.

I pulled out the McKennaii just as I felt my spine tingling. I ate them all, nasty as they were. Dried shrooms may not be palatable, but at least there’s only a couple grams to chew. Fresh shrooms though? 35 grams of chomping. Well, the dose of Hawaiians was only 12 grams, but the other varieties were anywhere from 20 to 35 grams per dose. I got used to them, but for whatever reason I was gagging a bit as I forced the McKennaii down my throat.

I wandered back into the living room after pounding a glass of water. I had closed the window earlier after my cigarette and the apartment felt warm. I turned down the thermostat. The Colombians seemed mild, but it was also early. I was also used to more potent shrooms. The McKennaii reinforcements promised a more potent experience in time.

I turned on a trance station to produce a movement rhythm. I hadn’t moved much all day and I wanted to break a sweat. The shrooms were mild thus far, my thought clear and emotionally not much different than I had been before eating them. My body, though, felt slinky, craving limbs akimbo. I moved to the center of the room and let the music guide me. My pace changed with the rhythm, the beat. Time passed and I was aware of it.

I danced on and off for an hour, covered in sweat by the time I stopped. My heart was beating fast. I turned off the stereo. When I did the silence astounded me. I knew instantly that I was feeling the beginnings of the McKennaii and that the Colombians were shifting gears. I wanted to feel the rain so I grabbed my keys, ran downstairs, and walked outside. The rain felt wonderful for a moment, but then I was freezing. I unlocked the building door, ran upstairs to my apartment, and stripped off my clothes. I put them in the hamper. Fuck, I still needed to do laundry. This time I wrote it down before getting in the shower. I washed with lukewarm water as that was the temperature my body seemed to prefer. It felt almost as if I wasn’t in the water at all, that I was simply standing in a dry shower. The soap and shampoo lathered, though, and that confused me. How could that be?

I dried off without too much difficulty. My mind was beginning to take different shapes. Or maybe it was my thoughts. Ideas were angled then square, circling and spiraling, making triangles and rhombuses. Running parallel to these internal images were verbal ideas and commentaries. “It seems odd that I would think in shapes within the same mindspace as words while still being able to notice what I see and feel. There’s an open door in front of me, a snake-like coil spinning sideways with a vertical spike continuously stabbing it, and these word-thoughts defining what I’m experiencing, providing a play-by-play of sensation, emotion, and nonverbal thoughts.” I wondered why language typically dominated when it came into play. It usually distracted attentiveness from the other goings-on, but while shrooming it was on equal ground with the rest of the happenings, sensations and emotions acquiring just as much—or even more—attentiveness as language.

I used language to let language know it was losing the battle. My big toe wiggled in delight, finally feeling it was as much a part of me as the word “the.” How fucked up that an article such as “a” acquires more importance within my being than my big toe. A disaster! Why not just exclaim “disastrous”?! But why would any word be more important than my big toe? Preposterous that descriptors could become more meaningful than the described! Madness, absolute madness, delirious ribbons of ideas making humanity delinquent in its duty to the body. Why have words at all if they aren’t heightening sensory and emotional awareness?

Language had dulled our senses, detached us from our emotions, and made feelings incomprehensible. Of course we had become anxious, depressed, frightened, and lonely! Nouns disrupted our sense of movement, verbs replaced the actions they were meant to represent, and adjectives robbed the qualities of being from being! The species couldn’t survive much longer if it remained so dependent on language. We dumped garbage into oceans and ate corn syrup with a sense of impunity when we were not at all free from the punishment by doing so; our bodies told us how dangerous it was too eat foods with too much starch, but words convinced us it would be okay. Verbal thoughts created ridiculous beliefs and those beliefs directed action: “One more bag of Cheetos won’t hurt. Maybe I’ll follow that up with a box of cookies and wash it all down with a 72-ounce bucket of sugary soda. My taste buds say it’s okay so it must be.” What about the nausea that always follows, the inner deadness and the emotional dread, the fat accumulating over weeks, months, and years, the diabetes developing and the organs failing over decades, and then the miserable decade before death, a death coming twenty years before it might have if words hadn't convinced us that what was bad was good?

I had been as negligent as anyone else, harming my body, ignoring my senses, misunderstanding my emotions, dismissing my feelings. I believed all the suffering was normal because others, including doctors, used words to tell me “you're in the normal range of health for your age.” Well, yeah, the fucking scientific studies determining "normal ranges" were based on statistical samples of unhealthy individuals. "Healthiness" had been a label that had little to do with optimal health. "You're in the mediocre range of health which, if you want the truth, means you're pretty fucking unhealthy compared to what you could be if we had constructed societies to optimize our sensory and emotional experiences. But we love words so fuck that other shit! Yippee!" I made the pitiful mistake of believing that other human beings knew a goddamn thing about anything. Fucking idiots! I, too, was one of the idiots because I had listened and believed.

I had been wandering around the apartment naked while raving internally. My big toe was being ignored again as I angered with words. I stopped walking as it seemed the movement was fueling the diatribe of language. I looked down at my big toe and allowed myself one last series of verbal thoughts: “Everything I have been doing since booking an apartment and flight to Amsterdam in November of last year has been in service of making such discoveries. I am freeing myself from the confines of externally-created beliefs, values, morals, and principles that I had inadvertently internalized as reliable truths. But Rome wasn’t built in a day—Never Say That Again! Those fucking clichés, they were the worst offenders. No time to stop, keep going, keep shrooming, eradicate every diseased thought of society.”

A deep breath then a wiggle of the toe. A smile, evidence of an emotional connection created by awareness of a collaboration between sight and the physical sensation of a wiggling toe. I spent the rest of the night in emotionally gratifying silence introducing verbally segregated body parts to one another in the process of integrating them into a loving union.

Amsterdam Forty-Six: Lesbians Like Cock?!

My early experiences with shrooming were always followed by mornings wondering, “Did that really happen? It was just a dream, right? Wait, is it still happening?” After shrooming more often, though, I wondered if the dream started when I woke. The wonderland seemed more and more like the time and place I lived and the rest was what happened in between my waking moments. Who I was while shrooming was becoming who I was when I wasn’t.

I laid in bed for a long time looking at the ceiling. I had a hand behind my head, relaxed on the pillow. I didn’t think about anything verbally. I focused my awareness throughout my body and simply felt … good. I felt good. There was no reason to move. That was what other people did when they woke. Not me. I looked at the ceiling and felt the feel-good vibrations all over my naked body. Deep sighs, comfortable breathing, alert but without tension. I didn’t need to process what occurred while shrooming. I could feel it; it was still there.

I moved after a couple hours. Took a shower. Brushed teeth. Still no verbal thought. I was able to think “This feels better than thinking with words” without using words to think it. So much easier to relax without words, to remain present within sensation. Sensuality reigned. Every movement, every look, every touch felt sexual. Not sexy; sexual. I had a chest libido, a breathing sexuality that made my chest expand and contract. My hips moved whenever I did, but the most powerful sensations were in my chest and throat. I remembered this sensation existing previously, but the thought drifted from my consciousness as soon as it appeared. No thought could last long while breathing this steadily, this powerfully.

I peeled an orange and stood in the kitchen wearing only boxers. I poured a glass of water, took a drink, and ate the orange slices as I pulled them apart one by one. My fingers and chin were juicy and sticky, a smiling sensation. I looked out the window at the apartments across the way. The lighting of the building suggested overcast skies. Appropriate given my sensibility.

I washed my face and hands with a wet kitchen towel and went to the bedroom to dress. No rushed movements, no stress. I moved to the far couch, sat down, tuned the radio to a jazz station, and listened. I did nothing but breathe, listen, and enjoy the sensations flowing through my body. After an hour or more of simply sitting and breathing, I rose and cranked open the window. It wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been. My face smiled and I closed the window.

I packed my day bag with sketch pads, pens, and colored pencils then put on a jacket and winter hat. I grabbed my lighter, cigarettes, dugout, wallet, keys, and phone then left the apartment. I unlocked my bike and rode toward Bloem. Other than the one smile my facial expression hadn’t changed all day. No tension, nothing. My face felt more relaxed than relaxed; blank was a better description. None of these thoughts were verbal; observations that meant nothing more nor less than anything else. I had found a meadow somewhere on the other side of peace and I was lying in it, the only one of my kind present, my private paradise.

While lounging in my meadow, I passed women, men, and children on the streets. They walked, biked, scootered, skated, stood, sat, gathered, jumped, laughed, shouted, whistled, and spoke. I saw each one of them. The streets canals, buildings, and trees as well. I heard every sound within earshot, felt the wind blowing against me, my muscles flexing and contracting, my legs pedaling in constant motion. I breathed the crispness of the air. Still no expressions, no verbal thoughts. As I crossed Middenlaan on Plantage Kerklaan, I had the first verbalization of the day. I didn’t will it and I didn’t know why it occurred. The inner voice said, “What if every day could be like this?” I felt awe for a moment then took a deep breath and exhaled, another deep breath and exhaled. Back to inner silence, heightened sensory awareness. I briefly allowed myself to think, “Idiot,” then returned to observational silence.

I parked my bike on the rack outside Bloem then locked it. I stopped before going inside to smoke a cigarette, my first of the day even though it was mid-afternoon. Sensations, simply different sensations. Pleasant … mostly. Halfway through the cigarette the sensations became unpleasant so I put the cig in the bin before going inside.

I saw Nina at the table nearest the side door. My table. She was sitting with a woman who appeared to be in her early-30s or maybe mid-thirties. She was very pretty, but Nina’s jaw-dropping gorgeous sexiness overshadowed her. Then again, Nina’s looks overshadowed most women’s. Somehow she was sexy without arousing my desire. I think it was because of the way we met. She laughed so much that first night and was filled with wide-eyed wonder and the excitement of eternal youth. The ventriloquist, the jokes, and the way she looked at me expectantly as I listened. Adorable. I didn’t have a little sister, but I felt that way about her. It was easy for me to be with her because of the way we met. The same with Daniel and Anabel, though Anabel was more openly sensual and affectionate. Nina was … Nina. Sweet on one hand, but, as Daniel and Anabel had joked, she was also the “angry lesbian.” I never saw her angry except when they called her the “angry lesbian." She would get angry on cue whenever called that. Made me laugh. She was more complex than that, too. Worldly and mysterious while being blunt and cocksure. She could be kind and considerate; she was incredibly intelligent and well-informed but never intellectual and sometimes even naïve. She was complex even though she was still so young. I wondered about who she might become.

My curious verbal thought had returned, not in full force, but enough to remove me from the fullness of my senses. Nina smiled at me, rose to her feet, and kissed my cheeks. “Sit with us. This is my friend, Paulette. Paulette, this is Michael, the American.” As I sat, Paulette leaned over to kiss a cheek. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today, Nina. I don’t think I’ve seen you since Anabel’s party.” Nina said, “I think you’re right. That was a fun night.” I sat quietly, allowing my thoughts to lose words so I could feel my breathing and enjoy the space. Nina pulled out her phone and said, “I received an email from Anabel. She met a hot dancer while taking classes.” I laughed. “That sounds about right.” I paused and said, “How do you handle Anabel’s sex life? I know you’re in love with her.” I was teasing, but Nina looked at me fiercely. “It’s true, I do love her.” She softened and said, “But she’s my best friend. Always has been. And she’s always been the way she is, falling in love, full of romance, making everyone swoon.” She smiled then softened into a brief sadness. “I miss her.”

Isa walked over and said hello. “Hey, Isa, how are you?” He was towering a thousand feet above me. “Good, good. You want something to eat or drink?” I ordered a beer and Isa went back behind the bar. Bloem was crowded. Daniel and another fellow I didn’t know were busy working upstairs and down.

I turned back to Nina and said, “So, are you seeing anyone?” I looked back and forth between Nina and Paulette, raising my eyebrows, nodding my head slightly, barely curling the corners of my mouth upward. Nina leaned back in her seat and smiled. She looked at Paulette who leaned a little closer to the table, smiling ever-so-slightly. She continued to look at Nina, her eyes fixed as she said, “I don’t know. Nina?” I saw Nina smile wryly. Nina blushed for the shortest of moments before her expression relaxed and became casual again. She picked up her glass of red wine, swirled it in front of her, and lifted her eyes from the glass to me while nonchalantly but bluntly saying, “I’m trying to get her into bed, but she’s making me work for it.”

My eyes widened and I looked at Paulette. Paulette sat back a little and opened her mouth into a grin with a tickle of exasperation. “Oh, you’re being dramatic. I’m not ‘making you work for it.’” Paulette lifted her glass, also red wine, and said, “We’ll see what happens.” I was intrigued being in the middle of this as a neutral observer. I was internally rooting for Nina, “You seduce that older woman, you horny little sexpot! Just curl your hair with a finger and lick your lips a little more often while … looking at her exactly the way you are right now!” Nina’s eyes glistened with sex. Even I was getting turned on and she was my little sister! Shit, when she gave a look like that there was bound to be collateral damage.

Paulette, meanwhile, continued shifting in her seat, bringing the wine to her lips to sip more and more frequently. She was bathing in Nina’s gaze. I was sitting closer to her and across from Nina so when Paulette uncrossed her legs leaning forward and then leaned back to cross them the other way I saw the entirety of her body language, the deliriously deliberate way she moved her legs and hips, the way her silky and clingy mid-thigh skirt rose as she crossed her legs, the tautness of her quads and the shapeliness of her calves beneath her sheer hosiery, the delicate shifting of her wine glass twisting as it moved from one hand to the other, the bend of her waist then the smooth slide of her buttocks further toward the front of the seat, the shoulders beneath her loosely fitting but stylish crystal opal button-down long-sleeve shirt first rising and falling then rising and falling in a more pronounced way as her breathing became otherwise imperceptibly heavier, and lastly her hair falling over the side of her face as she tilted her head, all of which created an exquisite demonstration of her mature sexuality.

God, I wanted Paulette. If she would breathed on me that moment I would have ripped her shirt open and sent buttons scattering everywhere, diving into her lips so hard that her seat would have toppled. Fortunately, that didn’t happen--we would have crashed through the window behind her seat. To distract myself I looked over at Nina and as I did I thought, “That’s not a fucking distraction, man! Fuck, you’re just making it worse.” Nina was—fuck! She was fucking twirling her hair with a finger and biting down on her lower lip. Jesus fucking fuck, that’s what I thought she should do, for crissakes, but now I was caught up in their jungle heat, two sex bombs with short fuses sure to obliterate Bloem if their lips met. I didn’t know whether to run, look away, keep watching, or dive in the middle begging them to take me with them on their magic carpet ride.

Isa, Bloem’s sex bomb squad expert, walked over, placing a coaster on the table and setting my beer on top of it. In one fell swoop, he cut the red wire and the bombs stopped ticking. I looked up at Isa, desperately trying to control my rage, and thanked him for the beer. “No problem.” He turned and walked off as I shot daggers into his back with my eyes. Fuck. I looked back at Nina and Paulette. They looked as if nothing had ever happened between them. They hadn’t exactly become asexual, but the heat had dissipated enough that I could breathe again. I really didn’t care that much about breathing that moment, though.

The whole salacious scene transpired in less than half a minute, including Isa’s impeccably bad timing. I took a deep breath then a very large drink of beer, more than half the glass. Paulette joked, “Thirsty, Michael?” Without moving my head, I shifted my eyes to her. “You have no idea, Paulette. No idea.” Nina laughed when she realized what had happened. “That got you going, didn’t it?” I shifted my eyes toward the ceiling and opened my mouth, but not a word came out. Finally, I stuttered, “I-I-I-” causing both Nina and Paulette to laugh. I let out a sigh and laughed a little, too. “All I can say is that was the one of the hottest half minutes I’ve ever experienced without any physical contact or attention directed toward me.” More laughter from the sex bombs. “Nina, you’re young and sweet. You’re not supposed to do things like that around me. I’m a delicate flower.”

Nina guffawed. “You? You’re the one who went out with the wild nineteen-year old Romanian!” What?! I never mentioned Vanessa to her. Did I? “How do you know about that?” Nina rolled her eyes. “At Anabel’s party. When I asked you about your love life you said you had been seeing a Romanian girl. I told you to find someone your own age.” What?! “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean? I don’t remember talking about any of this with you.” Nina nodded her head emphatically. “I know. You were hammered.” Huh. “And I told you about Vanessa?” She nodded her head more casually. I looked over at Paulette who had an eyebrow raised. It appeared I was suddenly much more interesting. I shook my head and looked back at Nina. “Wait a minute. You told me to go out with women my own age? Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black.” Nina frowned in disgust. “What does race have to do with this?”

I just about fell off my chair laughing. I could barely get the words out. “It’s an expression, Nina. It’s a saying.” I collected myself and Paulette stepped in to help. “What he means is: Why aren’t you going after women your own age instead of me.” Uh oh. “Now, hold on. I didn’t mean that exactly. You're young and beautiful, Paulette—and sexy as all hell, believe me. I almost fainted earlier. Nevertheless, you are older than Nina. That doesn’t make you old. Nina’s really young. Still, if you and Nina got together you’d break all the fire codes in the city. You’d burn down whatever building you were inside by giving off so much heat. It's fucking insane how sexual the two of you are.”

This temporarily allowed me to avoid the catastrophe I had nearly created. Nina, though, said, “Michael, it’s not the same thing at all. Your girlfriend was nineteen. I’m twenty-three.” Girlfriend? Damn, what the hell did I tell her that night? I wasn’t sure if there was any logic to her response or not. “Are you saying I should go out with women in their early-to-mid twenties?” Nina gasped and leaned forward, her hands by her head. “No, a woman in her thirties!” I looked at Paulette and raised my eyebrows. She smiled, but shook her head. I shrugged, a nonverbal, “You can’t blame a guy for trying.” Nina said, “You are such a man.” I leaned forward and said, “Nina, that’s not true at all and you know it. I would love to meet a woman in her thirties or even her forties if there was a connection between us. That hasn’t happened for a while. In fact, it’s been over a year since I went out with a woman over thirty.” Nina sighed. “Well, you do what you want.” I laughed. “Thank you for giving me permission.”

Nina looked over at Paulette then back to me. She was serious now and her voice, always so beautiful and resonant, sang, “Michael, I’m only saying these things because I want you to be happy. Nineteen? That would never work. A one-night stand? Of course! It would be better to have a relationship with a woman your own age, though.” Really? “How do you know?” Nina shrugged. “I can just tell.” I looked at Paulette. “What do you think?” She shrugged. “I’m not invested. Do what you want.”

I finished my beer and waved at Isa. Daniel hadn’t stopped by once, but he had waved a couple times. Isa filled a beer and brought it over. I thanked him then broke the silence at the table. “You know, it is refreshing to talk so openly about sex, with a woman I’d never before met,” as I gestured toward Paulette, “and with the younger generation,” as I motioned to Nina. “I can’t imagine a similar openness in the U.S. between different ages, different sexes, and different sexual orientations. It’s so easy, so natural, so enlivening. Is it common in Amsterdam for everyone to be so open about their sexuality, to share it with strangers or those with different sexual identities, ages, and backgrounds?”

Paulette nodded her head, “Yes, this is normal. Sex is common, you know. Everyone has sex so why would it be something to hide, something that makes anyone uncomfortable? I don’t understand Americans, why they are prudes. Not you, Michael, but it does seem many Americans are uncomfortable with sex, talking about it, showing it, sharing it. It’s human to be sexual so why should it be hidden in public spaces?” She was preaching to the choir. “I agree wholeheartedly. You’re used to this, which is the way it should be, but other than larger urban areas and certain cultures within those cities, Americans are mostly squeamish about sex when out in public--unless they're drunk. The idea of a young person with a Goth identity talking sex with a middle-aged grocery store manager at a local cafe or bar, though? That just doesn't happen in the U.S. Maybe it has happened, but it’s not commonplace, that’s for damn sure.”

Paulette said, “I don’t know how often the scenario you described happens here, but I think it’s mostly because the two hang out in different places. I don’t know, though. Your example is interesting. I haven’t thought about it quite like that.” I liked Paulette more and more as we talked. As a whole, I found Dutch women and the women living in Amsterdam substantive and balanced. Confident without being arrogant, strong without being dominant, intelligent, knowledgeable, insightful, sensual and sexual, witty, free-spirited, playful, and creative. I wasn’t sure if I was simply getting lucky meeting great women or if Amsterdam was just jam-packed with them. I said as much to Nina and Paulette.

Paulette looked at me skeptically, but Nina said, “This is why I like Michael, why we all do. His appreciation and affection is genuine. He’s in love with Amsterdam. With life. It's refreshing.” I felt my heart warm as I smiled at Nina. “See, you are sweet, Nina. That was beautiful.” I shifted gears and said, “Okay, since we are talking openly about sexuality ... I know you’re a lesbian Nina, but when did you know?” Nina looked up diagonally as she thought. “I was young. Maybe nine or ten years old.” Wow! “Really? That young?” She nodded. “You’ve never been with a guy then.” She shook her head casually, “No, I’ve had sex with guys.” What? “Wait a minute. If you realized you were a lesbian when you were ten years old then why did you have sex with guys?”

Isa came by with a couple glasses of wine for Nina and Paulette and removed their empties. Nina thanked Isa then swirled her glass, tilted it over her nose as she inhaled, and took a drink. Paulette was doing the same and after taking a drink herself she suggested a toast. “To sex” Nina smiled, open-mouthed, and exclaimed with enthusiasm, “Yes, to sex!” I laughed and nodded in agreement, the three of us raising our glasses then drinking. Nina put down her glass and looked me dead in the eye, pausing and staring, not with any intensity; in fact, quite casually but amicably. “You asked why I had sex with guys.” I nodded. She picked up her glass and took another drink. She placed her glass back on the table then looked at me again.

“I like cock.” I almost spit out the beer I had been drinking. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Let me get this straight: You’re a lesbian … and you like cock?” Nina said, “Yes. Why is that so surprising?” I gestured animatedly, absolutely exasperated, “It’s surprising because you told me you’re a lesbian! If you like dick, doesn’t that make you bisexual?” She forcefully throttled, “No, not at all! Without question, I am a lesbian.” I shook my head and tried to make sense of what she was saying. I laughed. Hard. I couldn’t help it. I looked at Paulette and she just shrugged. After I calmed down I said, “You know what? That’s cool. I don’t understand, but if that’s your identity and that’s what you like then … hey, that’s awesome. I just … I’ve never heard of such a thing before.” Nina flippantly said, “I never gave it a thought.” She yawned then picked up her glass and drank her wine. Fuck, if she wanted to be a lesbian who likes cock who was I to argue?

Identity is a strange thing and its stranger still when it comes to sexuality. I was just learning about transgendered identities and as I did I realized that I fit somewhere in that category much more than being a “heterosexual male.” I was only sexually attracted to women, but I didn’t always identify my gender as being a man. I could feel feminine and womanly identities within me, possibly androgynous, or perhaps another expression of  “the way I was.” Years later I identified as a pan-gendered alpha (fe)male. At other times, I thought Third Gender captured my identity more accurately. I thought of gender identity as an exceptionally personal affair, so personal that no category adequately contained the nuances of a person’s self-conception. Who can define what it means to be a self in terms of identity? Identity is certainly not a static quality, but a process that develops and changes over time. LGBT has become LGBTQQICSEBCC (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, cis, straight, emerging, becoming, changing, choosing). There could easily be more added, but then again these are categories without rigid boundaries. Nina was reinforcing that truth.

Paulette volunteered. "I’m bisexual. Most of the time, I prefer men, but … it shifts, especially if I feel a spark with another woman." She winked at Nina. As we continued talking, Nina asked me what was in my bag. I pulled out my sketch book and Nina leafed through it. “Wow, these are great. I didn’t know you were an artist, Michael.” I didn’t consider myself an artist, but I nodded yes anyway. Nina handed the book to Paulette and she looked at it with a seriousness that frightened me. At one point she looked up, an eyebrow raised with a disturbed look in her eyes. She asked, "Were you molested as a child?" What? The questions from these women. Geesh. “No. Why would you ask that?” She responded, “Well, some of the sketches are … extremely angry.”

I took a look at the one she was viewing and it was chaotic. It was a surrealist sketch of a woman with a cubist head, a disjointed and ragged body, and a single breast sagging from the middle of her chest. Her nipple protruded downward. It was red and the redness bled beyond the outline of her nipple, a circle of red with her nipple centered in the middle of it. It was the only color in the sketch and the effect was striking because of it. I remembered how I created it. I held a red felt-tip pen in the center of the nipple with the intention of allowing it to color part of the nipple before delicately filling in areas that hadn’t been colored. The ink, though, ran well beyond the nipple in all directions, the pen more explosive than I had realized. The quality of the paper played a role as well.

Surrounding the woman was a chaos of geometrical shapes and whips of lines. There was certainly a sadomasochistic quality to it, but it was unintentional, simply my normal style of drawing with the added flourish of an unintended effect using a colored pen. Art interpretation is as complicated as gender identity and I thought it was incredibly interesting that Paulette considered the piece to be purposefully disturbing and violent. I had no thought one way or the other about the woman in the sketch other than that she was fascinating in construction, her look bizarre and starkly odd in relation to the rest of the sketch. I hadn’t intended to draw a woman at all, but through the course of my drawing of whipped lines, flares, circles, angles, and the like, a head took shape in a strange way and I saw that I could create something very unusual if I changed my approach somewhat by focusing on that area while using different techniques. I consciously worked the rest of her face and body, still allowing some wild abandon but with much more control and intention than I usually used. Still, I was merely creating a surreal and distorted figure rather than a conceptual message about women, sexuality, or violence. The viewer created those interpretations; Paulette was proof.

Paulette finished leafing through the sketch book. “The sketches are violent and frenzied, but they’re also very good. Do you show your work?” I responded, “No, it’s a creative outlet, a release, a chance to let my mind relax and take a break from thinking about things.” Paulette nodded and said, “You should continue working. I think you could exhibit in time.” Shortly thereafter, Paulette and Nina got up to leave. I gave Paulette a kiss on each cheek and Nina gave me a big hug. “Ciao!” they said as they left. The two of them walked out holding hands and I wished, for a moment, that they had invited me to join them on their possible sexcapade.

Daniel had been gone from Bloem for some time while Isa, Fleur, and a guy I didn’t know worked. The place was in constant flux with people coming and going, a few tables like ours had been occupied by couples or small groups hanging out longer. There were several people upstairs. I heard voices from above me now and then. I ordered a salad and another beer from Isa. He said, “Sounded like an interesting conversation.” I laughed as I continued looking up at him. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. It was definitely interesting. Fun, too.” And hot. Fuck, they were hot together.

Daniel returned through the side door and put his arm on my shoulder. “How’s it going?” I said, “Great. It was fun talking with Nina and Paulette.” Daniel said, “That’s her name? I was too busy to talk much. They looked like they were together, anyway, so I didn’t want to interrupt.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Neither did I, but Nina invited me to sit down. And, yes, I think they’re together. For a fling? Maybe. I don’t know. There was definitely heat, though.” Daniel laughed and got up. “I need to get to work, see what needs to be done. Looks just as busy as it did when I left.” I said, “Yeah, it’s been like this since I arrived.”

Daniel went behind the bar to talk with the guy I didn’t know. My food came and I ate while skimming my sketch pad. When I was finished eating, I moved the dinnerware out of the way and grabbed a pen from my bag. While I sketched, I thought about what Paulette had said. “If my sketches are so angry then why am I so satisfied by drawing them?” Artist and viewer, two radically different perspectives. After a half hour, I put my sketch book away. It was around seven. Daniel was washing glasses in the bar sink and the other fellow was wiping off tables. I asked Daniel who his helper was. Daniel said, “That’s Frederic. He’s new. Well, he’s not new today, but in the past month.” Daniel introduced me and we exchanged pleasantries before Frederic went back to work. He seemed shy, kind of like Fleur. His English was a little choppy.

I ordered a beer from Daniel and he suggested a Tripple. “You liked the Dubble. I think you’ll really like this one. It’s new for us on tap. Strong, almost 10 percent.” Holy crap, that’s a strong beer. It tasted somewhat bitter, but it had a smooth, thick liquidy texture. I let it sit after I swallowed and waited. “Oh, man. That is really good. Three of those would be enough for me.” As we were talking, I mentioned to Daniel what Nina had said about being a lesbian and liking cock. He laughed. “Nina’s Nina. Why not?” Indeed. Why not? I asked Daniel if he was seeing anyone. “Not now. No one seriously.” I didn’t push it beyond that. Daniel kept his private life more private than most. I learned little bits about him that dribbled out in conversation now and then. I learned more and more each time I visited Bloem. I knew he was American yet had been in Amsterdam for ten years. That was a story I wanted to hear. Perhaps another night.