I finished the marketing index Sunday morning and sent it off to the publisher along with an invoice. $1500 for about twelve hours of work. This was why I didn’t turn down the business books. They paid ridiculously well even though they were so fucking easy to do. Meanwhile, I might make only $10/hour indexing a complex feminist critique on international affairs. When it comes to capitalism, the difficulty of the work has nothing to do with income. My work-related experiences taught me that the easier the work the better the pay. Meritocracy, my ass.
When I was done I checked my email. Nothing. I didn’t let my mind go far enough to wonder about what that meant. Instead, I put on my coat, hat, and gloves, grabbed my dugout and keys, and made my way out the door. Low clouds, light rain, cold, no wind. I walked, inattentive to where I was walking. Sullen. I was perhaps more affected by the situation with Sterre than I wanted to admit. The joy from the previous day likely due to the sense of discovery. The sun had been shining, the weather warmer, and I cycled upon treasures I hadn’t expected to find.
This day, though, with its low-hanging clouds, drizzle, and absence of air movement, weighed heavily over me. Whatever relish there was from finishing the index was quashed by the absence of emails. The smallest things could tell the most important stories. Smoke rings and empty email boxes, neither good nor bad in and of themselves, but contextually as meaningful as a car crash or a winning lottery ticket.
I bumped through the grayness, my head too low to see others walking. “Hey, watch it!” or whatever the Dutch version of that sentiment was. I heard that tone of voice several times until I realized I was on Rembrandtplein. Hadn’t I been walking along the Amstel? I thought I was walking toward Eik en Linde. I walked around the square, more attentive to the gangs of men so I wouldn’t run smack dab into them. I didn’t need an eight-on-one fight. There was occasionally a woman or two with the men, but for the most part this was a man's square. Not homosexual men; tourists and ex-pats. Sports bars and over-priced hotels and garish neon--which was not lit up during the day, fortunately.
I hated this square. I hadn’t the first couple times in Amsterdam. It was always thriving with energy and a decade earlier I liked the vibe. Testosterone. It was also Dutch-free. Americans, Aussies, Brits, Irishmen, Scots, New Zealanders. There may have been a few Spaniards, Italians, and Germans, but it was mostly an English-speaking area if memory served correctly. Bars and cafés with big screen televisions everywhere, mostly covering rugby, Australian Rules football, football (soccer), hockey, and even cricket. There were certain places that would show American football or baseball, mostly the big events like playoffs, the World Series, the Super Bowl, but the hours were wrong so the showings were recordings.
I avoided the area like the plague. I was no longer as interested in sports and I preferred the Dutch sensibility. I never felt the need for an English-speaking fix because the Dutch provided that in plenty. I was somewhat intrigued watching rugby since I played on a club when I was in college. I played a number of positions, occasionaly a two because I had legs like tree trunks during that time, but most often an eight or a nine because I was quick, strong, and saw the field well enough to know which direction to run, pitch, kick, or fake. I ran fast and hit hard, that was my strategy. I broke a guy’s nose when he tried to tackle me low—I high-stepped with my knee as he came into me and caught him flush in the face; his fault for going in head first—a lot of college guys did that. They were used to having helmets from playing American football. A good way to break a neck in rugby, though. I hurt a lot of guys while playing—the nature of the game—including a couple who had to be taken to the hospital for broken arms and clavicles.
But I only marginally remembered the rules and I certainly didn’t know anything about the traditions or names of players from different countries. The Aussies and Brits took rugby much more seriously than I did and, as it was in American bars with die-hard football fans, you needed to know your shit or keep your mouth shut if you didn’t want to be ridiculed and possibly taunted into a fight. I wasn’t worried about scrapping even here in Rembrandtplein, but I was alone, without a gang of my own. I was well past that stage of life, anyway. Surprisingly, even the forty-plus year old guys in the Rembrandtplein still got sauced and belligerent enough to fight. Oddly enough, they were often successful businessmen, traders, designers, and techies. I would think a little decorum would go a long way, but the male cultures of the English-speaking world were formed around sports and testosterone-infused aggression. Another reason to avoid the Rembrandtplein.
I made a loop of the square. The only building that was modern was that of Club Escape, a dance club, one I generally avoided. There were better clubs elsewhere and I really hadn’t gotten into that scene, anyway, since I had been married to a woman who wasn’t into clubs or drugs let alone experimenting sexually with others. When we got divorced one of the biggest pains was knowing I had missed out on being single during my twenties and early thirties, a time when I likely would have most enjoyed being single, hitting clubs and parties, doing copious amounts of drugs, and exploring differing sex scenes. I suppose I was making up for lost time in that sense even if I was wanting to find a deeper satisfaction with life. The two went hand in hand at times.
But this scene? No. The names of the places told the story: St. James’s Gate Irish Pub, Hotel Atlanta, Café La Bastille, Rembrandtbar, Terras Café De Monico, Three Sisters Pub, Coco’s Outback, Playa Nasty, and Italiaans Restaurant La Madonnina. There were others, too, all of which suggested this was an area catering to ex-pats and tourists. There was nothing subtle about the place. Everything was over-the-top. It was the sports bar version of the Red Light District.
Nevertheless, I went into a pub for fish and chips and to possibly catch a rugby match. I didn’t feel like doing anything else, anyway, and I thought a rowdy atmosphere might get my blood pumping. I found a seat at the bar that gave me a view of a few televisions. I saw there was an Australian Rules match on one. Good enough, close enough to rugby although there was way too much kicking for my liking. I wanted to see scrums, bone-crushing hits, and the racing speed of a team pitching on the run. I realized that underneath that earlier sullenness was more than a little anger. I couldn’t explain it other than it was related to feeling rejected and hurt by Sterre. Maybe this would provide a temporary escape and then, later, shroom and work it out.
I ordered a beer and food. The bar wasn’t crowded nor was it particularly rowdy. It was early enough in the day that no one was drunk yet. There were enough people scattered throughout, though, and I heard a few cheers here and there. The seats on either side of me were empty until a couple Aussies sat next to me. They looked to be in their 30s, low-key, just ordering beers while chatting. Their accents weren’t too thick so it was easy to understand them. They were talking about work so I tuned out when my food came.
I ate and watched the match on the television, mindlessly wasting time. Eventually, I talked with the Australians. They were friendly enough, working in the city, just out for an afternoon. They asked me if I worked in Amsterdam and I explained a little of my situation. More time-wasting of little significance. I asked them, though, if they veered away from the ex-pat scene. Occasionally, they said, mostly through their Dutch co-workers. I wondered if anyone from out-of-country ever ventured out of their comfort zone. I’m sure some did; I had met so few from elsewhere that I couldn’t say one way or the other. I wasn't going to meet those who did in a pub like this.
After my second beer I left. As I wandered beyond Rembrandtplein I breathed a sigh of relief. I was no longer morose so it had served a purpose. I couldn’t be entirely negative about the space given that. Nevertheless, it wasn’t an area where I wanted to linger. I walked down a side street toward the curve of the Amstel and, surprisingly, found a shroom shop. It truly was a shroom shop rather than a smart shop. Actually, there were crappy souvenirs and trinkets for sale in the tiny place; no herbs or other smart-shop type products. The middle-aged Indian fellow sold the typical varieties of shrooms, though, so I purchased a dose of Hawaiian and one of Thai then walked to Vijzelstraat to buy groceries from Albert Heijn.
When I arrived back at my apartment I put the groceries away and left the shrooms on the counter. It was only mid-afternoon but I decided to eat the Hawaiians, anyway. I hadn’t shroomed much since the sex party. After a toke of Arjan’s and a cigarette, I checked my email again. One from a friend in the States, but none from Sterre. I thought of emailing her, but instead I sent an email to Eliene and Auriana. Thinking of the sex party again reminded me that we had swapped emails. Even if Sterre was finished, they weren’t necessarily. I kept the message simple then took out my sketchbook to draw.
As I felt the shrooms I turned on the stereo, keeping the volume low, and found a trance station. The bleep-bleeps felt good along my spine. I opened the window. It was drizzling again. It had been on-and-off when I was out earlier and now it was on again. The temp was a little warmer, but still cold. Everything within me and outside the window took on a pleasant glow, though. Damn, I had missed the shrooms. I was so glad they were back again.
Outside my window a woman was hiding under an umbrella floating down the street. Her feet moved but they barely touched the ground. Either the umbrella was catching a current of air to lift her or her body weighed next to nothing, made of a substance that was neither flesh nor blood, paper-feathers covered by clothing made of anti-matter. As she disappeared from view, a cyclist who was entirely serious zipped past. Even though he was gone in a blink I saw his Oakley sunglasses—sunglasses? On a dark day like this?—his spandex cycling pants, his tight-fitting windbreaker. What the hell was that? He belonged on the West Coast of the United States; he certainly didn’t dress like a cyclist from this city. Was he preparing for a race or was he just a douchebag?
It didn’t matter. Three pedestrians, two men and a woman, sang past in Dutch, somehow lively while being relaxed. They had not a modicum of care about anything. They were not careless, though; they were simply free of concerns. They allowed me to breathe easier. I wished they would stay. I took a cigarette from my pack and lit up. I became conscious of my interior—interior? Inside of my body? Whatever. I felt the smoke and the heat within. On the seventh day I took a rest and decided it was good.
I looked across at the apartments then up at the indistinguishable gray that everyone believed were clouds. It was just dark gray concrete someone had laid maybe a thousand feet above the city. Fucking ugly and dreary. No wonder I had felt the way I had earlier. Too sensitive to what was beyond me. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. There was something about the gray that held me transfixed. I felt trapped in a gaze. Not panicked; resigned. This would be my fate, to look forever at a concrete sky. Why wouldn’t the moment pass? It couldn’t for some reason and I didn’t know why.
I felt a flash from my future. Grayness would be my life. Not just the sky above, but slowly descending all around me, buildings and trees and people would all become gray and eventually indistinguishable. My body would become gray then my feelings then my thoughts. Not shades of gray, a particular gray that would make me long for a world seen in blacks and whites. Two colors were at least better than one. Why would anyone want oneness? There was nowhere to go with oneness, nothing to experience, just a fucking ohm of timelessness. May as well cease to be. I couldn’t comprehend any difference between one and nothing. They were essentially the same. How could a distinction be made? A perspective from beyond those conditions couldn’t exist so … that would be that.
I was relieved when I looked back down at the apartments across the street. Perhaps gray was my future, but it wasn’t my present. Differentiation continued to exist. A wave of gratitude and then … a shift. I was … depressed. Sad? Melancholy? No. Those were legitimate emotions; this was depression, the blocking of those emotions. Why would I block them? Because I didn’t want to experience them. I wanted them to disappear forever, to never feel sorrow or grief ever again. Why, though?
They were too close to a past I wanted never to exist again, a pain that had been unrelenting. Even a moment of sadness had become a torture because it was accompanied by a fear that such emotions wouldn’t pass. I lived within them for years without a break, without moments of happiness. I feared that if the emotions came back that they would stay forever. Forever gray.
I had to feel the emotions, though. They had a story to tell. They were screaming to be let out, to be felt. Shit, I had to feel them or else they would stay. That was what depression was: A condition in which sorrows remained unfelt but ever-present because of a refusal to feel them. That refusal was fueled by fear. Wasn’t I in Amsterdam to face such fears? Yes. That had been the purpose of this trip, to discover what laid beneath the surface. Shrooms were the means to see more clearly, to break down defenses, to open the gates, even if they were the gates of hell.
An aversion to hell had confined me in hell. Ironic. If I was in hell then I needed to be aware of being in hell, including all of the accompanying horror. As the emotions rose to the surface, tears flowed and the realization came. Sterre. I was still hurting from the sting of her judgment and rejection. It was more than that, though. The judgment and rejection resembled the more fiercely painful experiences with S. There it was. Nothing grandiose or particularly profound. A very simple intellectual explanation of a cause, but the understanding didn’t alleviate the hurt. I was going to have to allow the emotions to run their course with faith that they eventually would.
I had turned away from the window while thinking and feeling. The softness of the emotions surprised me; I expected harrowing pain, but there was only a quiet sadness, almost sweet. Why would I run away from such emotions? They were beautiful. My tears were not just of sorrow, but of happiness, a different sort of happiness, not joy, but something I couldn’t name. I was glad I knew no signs or symbols for the feelings. Naming them would confine them, distort them, prevent them from being fully felt—or so I believed. I lied down and simply felt the emotions, closing my eyes, disengaging from thought.
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