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| 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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