Tales of Amsterdam

It's 5:00 a.m. on a brittle Friday morning. The sun has not yet awoke, and the shadows are slowly creeping through the unlit abyss of a sky in efforts of a surprise attack. Hiding from these shadows led me to opening another beer ... to sip on while I plan. Planning I had better start, since our airplane was leaving for Amsterdam in about four hours. The remaining supplies that were necessary to pack went quickly, and with only slight hesitation.

The clock was working against me now. Some kind of dimensionally misplaced horror was seemingly moving the time forward at an extreme rate. Now being 6:30 a.m., I will have to hurry like a cat running from the vacuum. I have to drop off my apartment keys. My friend Hollywood will be monitoring my lovely feline companions for the duration of my expansional journey. Seeing Hollywood brings a familiar glimpse of comfort and recognizing; but time can surely not be wasted ... not now for god sake. I maneuver back into my car and turn the key ... powering up the machine of ground travel. The morning haze is starting to clear, opening up possibilities of a very eventful day.

As I drive back to my apartment, I figure the party should probably continue. Shit, I've got a joint already rolled ... right here in my cigarette pack. What the hell, I think I'll smoke the little bastard all the way down to a hellish finger burn. Upon arriving home, a true out of body experience would occur. The likes of a couple real American heroes ... legends with the power of the strongest angels from the greatest heights of nonexistence.

On my worn, yet comfortable couch, lay Twatty sleeping like a goddamn baby. A quick, witty individual that is exactly what the conformed unknown of a regressed symbol is scared of. Honest and true to the enjoyments in which we live. Twatty sometimes crashes at my place when he either drinks to much beer, hard alcohol; maybe smokes to much grass ... shit, maybe even he's just tired. Whatever the case may be, he's definitely asleep now. Going through in his mind translations that he already knew how to read. The surroundings in my apartment of estranged bottles and overflowing ash trays gasp for a breath of sanctuary, but choke on the reality of their use. A wave of energy suddenly rushes over my soul from the other couch as the tides of this world collide with the depths of hell. Bill, for now, is silently sleeping on my love seat. Love seat is such a funny name. They're to small to make sweet, sweet love on.

You could only snuggle on one of those motherfuckers if both you and your partner were midgets of glory; sprawling out with certain victory of self in mind. Myself and Bill go for millions of back road cruises on a fairly regular basis. Analyzing the fog engulfing the road is very interesting discussion when you're blitzed out of your fucking mind. Bill was saying something about the mixture of cold and warm air, yada yada ... whatever. A very interesting perspective. My contention is that lost souls are endlessly floating through the lands of their expired conscious minds. Searching for the truth in which the manufacturing of their existence failed so brutally.

Either way, there's no right or wrong; the key is to except the belief in other ideas outside of your own. What to do next? Sleep has been out of the picture for quite some time; and I am as ready as I'll ever be to leave for a week into the depths of Amsterdam. I light up another joint while relaxing in my Victorian style chair ... which most people find uncomfortable, but I still love. The fragrance in the air awakens Bill, who then joins me with the smoke.

The day is almost ready to begin. Twatty is apparently still a little sleepy due to animalistic fighting to the death; in a cage. An art for only the strong hearted. A physical battle mixed with an emotional triumph. Five battles every hour on the hour for fifty eight continuous hours. With minor contempt, Twatty awakens with the knowledge of an already wise Indian chief ... lined and laced with instruments of bravery. After smoking another joint, and a team bowl, we stumble around eyeballing our surroundings, to insure we don't forget anything. Even if I had, I wouldn't know, and probably not care. I could go to Amsterdam with a pocket full of money and a Passport,and be completely fine with that.

The three of us anxiously await our fourth, yet not final member of drug exploration. I have known Ger for several years ... and we have discussed several fears. Ger loves to cook; and it actually tastes good ... real good. This is a difficult concept for me to understand. Everything I cook tastes like human waste covered in burnt caramel.