Amsterdam

We were taking in the sounds and smells of Amsterdam by noon, where we found our houseboat with little difficulty. I was happy we had managed to rent a room on a houseboat. It's one step closer to actually living on one some day. We unloaded our things, settled the bill with the owners (a couple consisting of a wise cracking man with a beer gut and a Heineken hat and a shrewish woman with an unnerving stare) after an extensive search for an ATM, and went mushroom hunting. I had decided somewhere along the trip that I was going to do mushrooms in Amsterdam. I had never tried them, and figured it was better to experience them where they are legal and probably cleaner.

We found a smart shop in the outskirts of the red light district. After explaining to the Hawaiian-shirted owner that I wanted to see things he gave me some damp Colombian mushrooms, I gave him 13 euros, and that was that. I ate them on a nearby bridge overlooking a wide canal, chomping the fungus, and washing it down with a banana. 1:33 P.M. Derek noted. 45 minutes until something happened, the Hawaiian shirt had said. All I could do now was wait.

In the meantime we stopped in a coffee shop and bought a gram of Jack Herrer, that was described as a "mellow, relaxing high," and sat down to eat at a seductive, mood lit Spanish restaurant. I was giggling in anticipation for the trip, waiting for the Columbians to kick in. It was about the time we got our food that my body began to tingle. It was a good tingle, like warming up by a fire after being out in the snow all morning. When we finished eating I was high, but not tripping, just giggly and high. My body felt light and fluffy. When Derek left to use the bathroom the visuals began to come. I was looking at a wine rack, when lazily, everything seemed to relax and stretch as if the entire world had been holding its breath until now.

The waiter came with the bill and I signed it, smiling at my goofy waving signature, and we went outside to the flower market, where everything looked sharp and vibrant. Colors, sound, and especially faces. I felt like I could describe faces, and that everyone had hard edge lines, almost angled, but not dramatically. When I thought about writing the faces turned into the words I would have used to describe them. Languages, fonts, and punctuations dripped from passing mouths. When I looked to the ground there were piles of words laying around, being kicked by many shoes.

Derek said something about Van Gogh park, museum or otherwise, and I was all for it, I was all for anything. Everything was all right. I thought I had said this out loud, but Derek just looked at me while I watched a postcard of a multicolored rug blowing in the wind, like a magic carpet.

Before long we were standing at a bus stop. I was watching everyone's feet as they shuffled and stuttered on the checkered sidewalk. It was as if the sidewalk was nipping at their feet, trying to get them off. It was a tired grumpy sidewalk. I was lost in thought when the bus raced up and ate Derek and I, along with the rest of the sidewalk trespassers.

Lodged into a corner near the jaws of the bus, packed in the middle of nine million faces I concentrated on my arm hair dancing away like reeds dance in a passing wave. I was examining the tiny universe in that little patch of skin when ROAR! The jaws opened and ate a new batch. I stole a breath of fresh air before the jaws shut, and looked at the trees outside. All I wanted to do was get to nature for some reason. I wanted the bus to stop with the constant feedings. Wasn't it full yet?

The build up made the moment when we stepped off the bus and into Van Gogh Park that much better. Everything was made of clay. I was laughing, taking pieces of reality and molding them into something fresh, leaving behind black voids like tears in fabric, then letting them go, watching them slide slowly back into their true places.

We found a spot near a tree next to some children playing soccer, and Derek fired up a nice smelling joint. I heard a violin somewhere in the background of my head. I asked Derek if he heard it, but he said no, and was convinced I was hearing things. I was content hearing things, especially if they sounded as nice as this. I took my shoes off and lay down for a while watching the clouds dance on delicate feet, shifting partners, and breaking away. Then to the trees, swaying and rocking, with laughing faces in the leaves. All to the tune of my imaginary violin.

Derek was enjoying the scenery as well, and asked me what I was seeing. I told him that his smile was wrapping around his head and tying a bow on the other end. We laughed, then I took some reality clay from his face, from the clouds, and a little from a tree trunk and made a painting. I looked at it for a while, but the black voids eventually sucked their pieces back. I'm not sure they approved. I took a deep breath, and the lawn breathed with me.

It seemed like hours before I heard Derek again. He was smiling and asked if I wanted to take a look inside the Van Gogh museum. Of course. I put my shoes and socks back on and we walked over toward the entrance and, HO! Around the corner a small woman was playing the violin. Had I invented her? I rubbed my eyes, but she was real. Derek was equally surprised.

We hit a slight snag entering the Van Gogh. Walking through the metal detectors we caught the attention of a sly-eyed Dutch woman in a starched uniform. She began to ask Derek some questions, while I hung back in fairyland. The woman's hair was fiery red, curling into ringlets framing her face. Her curls were slithering around, sliding up and down her face when I caught the stare. She focused in on me, squinting only the bottom half of her eyelids in a suspicious look. I caught the whiff of the lie Derek was concocting, and added an incoherent mumble of an affirmation. In an attempt to anchor myself I nodded feverishly and mustered what sobriety I had in me. The eyelids seemed unimpressed with my performance, but must have accepted that I wasn't completely off the edge yet, just teetering. With one last half squint she let us through to the eerie whisper riddled museum.

Here in front of us now were original Vincent Van Gogh pieces. Contrasted against the drab walls, hard corners, and impersonal metal, were vibrant animated paintings. It was interesting to think that they were locked up behind layers of security in somewhere so cold. From "Sunflowers," to "Portrait in a Felt Hat," his work continued to floor me. They were all animated, the figures and subjects moving freely about their rectangular existence.

When we left the museum Derek and I were both silent for a long while, walking around aimlessly until we spotted a family of ducks, playing in a string of cannabis plants floating along a canal. We talked a while, then walked around, and climbed a sideways tree. I was down from the intense visuals now, and would only occasionally see a drip or a stretch. It was getting late in the day, and we decided to grab a bite and explore the red light district.

I told Derek I'd buy him a whore for his birthday (the following day) and when we saw the selection I almost wished I had afforded myself one. Gorgeous women, but I was happy I wasn't on drugs any longer. They were sirens. Tapping on the glass doors with long manicured nails, licking their lips, becoming, calling out, whips, leather, big, small, and always on the prowl for the next score. Walking down a particularly narrow alley a woman in black lingerie brandishing a whip grabbed me as I walked by. She pulled my ear close to her full lips and said, "You, Now." Her hand slid down my back. I looked behind me at the traffic jam we were creating. She was holding me in place with her whip, which pressed against my chest. I was at a complete loss for words, but managed to mumble something about not having enough money, maybe tomorrow, etc. but she wasn't having it. "Fifteen euro," the lips whispered. Still I refused, shouts were coming from the traffic jam. With a push she moved on to the next in line, cracking her whip on my crotch.

I met with Derek outside the alley, and he said he had found a girl, so we went back to her window three times, but she was taken each visit. We sat on the edge of a main canal and looked at the lights and commotion. My crotch throbbed. Tired and thirsty, we trekked back to the passenger ship Avanti, where I fell into a deep sleep, breathing in the tart sea breeze.