Amsterdam II

So as the jokers would want, I began to listen and watch at a tertiary level the bazaar that was before me. I was not an active participant nor was I applauding. I was enjoying the whole experience as an outside observer because that is where I was coming from, out of my normal self. By taking in the experience from the position of not being entertained nor entertainer I could watch myself having the experience. Like fire is a mirror to the sun, eyes are a window to the soul. When you stare long enough at the sun it becomes a dark swirl and then a dozen suns on the landscape of your choosing. If I choose to assert attention onto me, by being me, I could have some twelve times the experience by imposing my identity onto others. So it goes, I found a makeshift utopia where I could captivate the audience.

It may be pretentious to think that I have the ability to stand alone in a crowd and somehow think that I’ve transcended it. This only shows that I know my significance, that I am self aware and conscious. These three things people in large groups usually don’t commit to while enjoying others talent as a spectacle. Instead, groups show adoration and emotions for the artist and subsequently walk away satisfied. Whereas if you can project yourself onto the artist it gives them satisfaction and material to express their understanding, repeatedly, the experience we’ve shared together.

So I left the spectacle unalienated and headed back to Bob’s Youth Hostel to listen in on conversations because I won’t contribute what I don’t know. Sometimes the only words I could muster was ordering items like salty, snotty eggs or asking for simple favors, not in a snotty way. The hostel, strangely enough, had a homey feeling to it. Like your local last call watering hole. The difference being, well, nobody was local but also nobody had to leave. You got the feeling that what was right for you was right. What was right for others, it was up to them how right they were. Not that there were no judgements passed. I just stayed away from illicit activity. This was the early nineties when it was best to be considered an old soul, when less was more. I hardly wanted to experiment with something that from my perspective was going to have me asking more questions and to nobody. Antisocial behavior to me seemed creative but abnormal and somewhat conceited. Progress in thought was in favor of socially adept people. Body language seemed to hold more truth than words. Truth attracted like minded people. For now I was safe.

There was lots of adventure to be had in this city. Even going out for a casual sit down meal would prove to be a mind-blowing experience. Eating out is easy enough, right? You just order food and ask for salt and dipping sauces. But when you have a brain that has yet to comprehend beauty from bedlam it may find repugnance in the least revealing places. In this case the hallucination, my first, was folded into a calzone. It was already half eaten and now inside me, no matter how loud I screamed or how fast I exited hell, the image was mine to endure. Exiting in a hurry, stuffing money into my wallet, looking disorganized and vulnerable. I suddenly felt an arm attempt to put me in a choke hold. Losing your shit is sufficient when describing a verbal spat with a loved one. My reaction, losing your mind, was as if I had just seen myself in a calzone and I was already dead. That’s not what I saw nor did I see the gun this hungry soul had just pointed at my head. After I scared the life back into everyone within a few blocks radius, his accomplice pointed at his blank head and swirled his finger making the international sign for crazy. It was then I snapped back to reality. I needed to find a way to protect myself from my own inexperience and the demons that would have me falter.