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Friday |
| No feeling of adventure this trip, I
sleepwalk through airport, train it to Centraal
station, drop bags in locker, walk the streets
unencumbered by possessions or thought.
It's kind of nice to feel so empty. Maybe, too, a
little scary. I smoke the usual, meander in search
of a bed. I know some people here but neglected to
email ahead. I find the Hotel d'Amsterdam, get their
last room, it has 3 beds, 2 windows, but the door
doesn't lock. That's OK, I've got nothing to
protect, everything is back at the station, I don't
miss my laptop, take a good long nap. John
Berry recommended the Bimhuis so I get
directions at a coffee shop. Bimhuis is the home of
improvised music in Amsterdam. Big government bucks
get thrown behind art here, including jazz and
experimental music. There's a bar next to the
performance hall and it's cool to smoke spliffs
there. I drink fresh-squeezed orange juice and feel
vague as my reflection in the big window. No one
knows me and I don't know here. It's possible I
don't exist. Sarah emailed to tell me my monorail
art proposal had been accepted and I pondered how
that might shape who the I is. |
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