sweep

location: Amsterdam- time 5:00 am local. Mood sultry/ restless.

I was in what, in my opinion, is the most beautiful part of Amsterdam: the Rembrandtsplein. The bed in which I slunk was highly comfortable and yet I hadn't slept. It began the previous evening. After wrangling with the hotel receptionist over the costs of leaving my passport in a safe, which I couldn't collect after 11:00 pm, nor at 6:00 am the following morning when I needed to leave, I decided to leave the issue and the Hotel. Waste no more time, I thought. Go out and soak in the city.

I wound my way past Liedseplein and onto the Oudezeide canal ring brandishing a portable supply of vodka and coke. This soon ran out and I decided to buy a triple at one of the bars, until I found out that it would cost 15 euros, the equivelant of nine quid. At this point I settled for two cans of vodka orange from the supermarket near Dam square then continued on my travels.

It wasn't long until I came upon the red light district and watched with mixed emotion, all the different faces in the windows. Some of the girls didn't seem at all happy. Whether or not I had something to do with this is a matter of speculation, yet I figured the prostitutes therein are not entirely undiscerning with potential clients. Then, I happened upon a fantastic brunette with assets to kill for, or to die for. She caught my eye and opened the door for me, beckoning and trying to initiate conversation. I could not understand how she looked so genuinely pleased to see me, even though my well oiled bullshit detector told me I was simply a worm on a hook. I didn't take my eyes away but my legs kept on walking.

An important lesson to remember in the red light district is to have clear intentions there, otherwise, for an altruistic, smiling lingerer, such as myself, junkies, dealers and liars soon catch on. After parting with some pocket change especially prepared for the event of a beggar, a proclaimed dealer/pimp stepped in, and pushed the beggar aside when he begged for more. The dealer introduced himself:

'my name is api he said.

How ironic, I thought. He didn't look very api. he told me that, since I was in Amsterdam, I should try everything. This meant that he simply wanted me to follow him to buy some cocaine. I refused and his offer of a tug on his 'coke joint' didn't deter me. That, I thought, would have obligated me into making further negotiations, and I left at the first opportunity without making it clear that I wasn't api with the situation. Then I met an italian busker called Danielle. At length he told me that if I gave him some of my money he would get a rest for one day. He wouldn't have to think about working and he could eat. he explained that the bloody marks peeking from under his hat were caused by malnourishment.

'why should i believe you?' I remarked. 'you don't have to believe me' he answered in a resigned tone. What if, just what if, he really was hungry and tired, I thought? I gave him the benefit of the doubt and offered some money. As I walked on I conjured visions of a happy busker eating and relaxing.

So, I had left the centre of Amsterdam intact, and I didn't care for any more confrontations, despite being saddened that I had no more left to give to an old man, too weak to appeal.

Why? Why did I feel happy yet frustrated? Perhaps I had been foolish and squandered a lot of my money on failures. Could I not have just walked in to see what the brunette had to say, or to do? Did it have to be a suck and fuck or could I have simply appreciated her looks and body? If so, would that have saved me the inevitable embarrasment succeeding ejaculation? >

'I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me'

'that's alright love, I do'

Now, I decided to waste no more time tossing *ahem* in the most comfortable bed I had ever known, so I got up, packed and showered. It was 5:10 am, and the song 'I need somebody to love whirled around my mind. I left the hotel and breakfasted on apples and sticky nut bars. I wondered if the red light district would be the same in the morning? Would the red light district, or the girls therin be 'open all hours'. Don't be so twisted I told myself. Narrow in mind, the beautiful city evaded my senses, and I cursed the day hair grew on my balls. fucking hormones Wasn't that my intention? Perhaps it wouldn't be such a 'bad experience?

There was about 45 minutes to kill before the train left from Centrum. I made a beeline for the red light district and indiscriminately found a lighted window. There was a looming shape behind the glass. She saw me approach before I even knew I was about to meet a woman; She barely needed to tap. The door opened and I was ushered in; a red curtain closed me from the city in half a second. Before me stood a well built black woman:

'You come upstairs with me and we fuck'

'bbb-but I only have ten euros. What can I get for that?'

'don't talk now The woman didn't hear me. I hope she doesn't think I think she's cheap. Besides If I had taken the risk she would have probably killed me afterwards and flushed me down the toilet. In good time she got the message. She told me her name was Danielle, coincidentally the same name as the Busker to whom I had squandered money to the tune of twenty euros:

'for ten euros you get a kissss! she hissed, bearing her gold teeth. This is what happens when you leap before you look.

Jesus, I hope she doesn't mean a french kiss, I thought. To my relief we did the customary french style kiss: no tongues. This left me feeling more of a dick than I had hoped for. This isn't a memorable sexual encounter. Isn't that why you're here? How can you know whether it is a 'bad thing' until you know it for sure, I thought. There again if i dance with the devil doesn't the devil end up dancing with me? Once I dip my toe in the puddle, does the dirt wash off? This is no time for philosophy, you berk, I surmised.

Well, she let me touch her hot, ample, chest, which was enough for my purposes, then she kicked me out:

'Get me another twenty euros and then we fuck'

I nodded and left for the train feeling different, which is good, in my opinion- to the extent that no harm had been done, perhaps. I had just traded in my last ten euros for a memorable experience. I had a plastic bottle half full of vodka and coke to quench my thirst and a few grams of king hassan fill my rumbling belly. The train ride would be an interesting one, especially since I had caught the 'wrong' train. Well, that is a high speed, high class euro shuttle, not that I was headed in the wrong direction. A german family let on that I had their seats, so I moved and poured some holy spirit down my parched oesophagus. As the train sped along, the journey felt slick and I recalled the words of my probation officer from many years ago.

'You would feel dirty if you went with a prostitute' he commented.

Damn right I did, but isn't that the whole point?

yguy

The point appears to be that, for the author at least, there is no point to anything.

sweep

[rant]the point is to be happy with the situation, and to find out what other people want rather than what you want among many other aspects of my experience. An experience is just that, I can choose to fear it or become angry and belittle it, but if I treat each person as an equal then the inconsistencies in our language and personal value system don't get in the way.

because our wants are continually compromised, there is conflict. In the conflict I see absurdity. Sometimes I feel insane, and other times my personality differs massively due to emotional amnesia. The dialogue changes with tone which is whence our misinterpretations are derived. Without conflict, there can be no humour, I suppose.

[/rant]

the question is, what do you want yguy?

I may look like shit, but that isn't what it felt like at the time, only there was this me the whole time blocking the path. Can my will be compromised anyhow?

I would like to add that a voice tells me not to confront, but I feel happy about all those people I met, even though the tone of my first post could be construed differently. When I think about the connection I would have like to make with all kinds of people, I could risk my neck, and my only option was to feel good about what I had been told was bad. Despite many of the themes here having negative connotations, I would first seek only trust, and not deceit.

yguy

I want you to make sense.

Daleth

sweep,

I don't know what the point is. It's your story, so it's your conclusion to draw. It would be different for others, the same for some.

I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed reading it. Thanks for posting.

Dal

Gurdur

Charles Bukowski would have done it differently.

echidna

Travel introspection, I think one of the beauties of travelling alone is the anonymity it provides, enabling one to either re-create oneself or engage in pursuits one mightn't at home. Nice one, writing about things makes one see the world differently I reckon.

While on the road I loved writing or reading the writings of others. A friend of mine once sent me one entitled Tijuana Porn.

sweep

yguy: where have you ever been?

daleth: I enjoyed expressing myself, even though I didn't like what I saw a few hours after writing it.

gurdur: thanks. We all would have done as we did because we are ourselves.

echidna: I was travelling alone as my friend chose to stay at the gite in France. That story is not as dark, and all of the people involved weren't in their undies

cheers to all

man in the sun: Charles Bukowski

she reads to me from the New Yorker
which I don't buy, don't know
how they get in here, but it's
something about the Mafia
one of the heads of the Mafia
who ate too much and had it too easy
too many fine women patting his
walnuts, and he got fat sucking at good
cigars and young breasts and he
has these heart attacks - and so
one day somebody is driving him
in his big car along the road
and he doesn't feel so good
and he asks the boy to stop and let
him out and the boy lays him out
along the road in the fine sunshine
and before he dies he says:
how beautiful life can be, and
then he's gone.

sometimes you've got to kill 4 or 5
thousand men before you somehow
get to believe that the sparrow
is immortal, money is piss and
that you have been wasting
your time.

and another.....


upon reading a critical review
it's difficult to accept
and you look around the room
for the person they are talking
about.

he's not there
he's not here.
he's gone.

by the time they get your book you
are no longer your
book.
you are on the next page,
the next
book.

and worse,
they don't even get the old books right.
you are given credit for things you don't
deserve, for insights that aren't
there.

people read themselves into books, altering
what thay need and discarding what they
don't.

good critics are as rare as good
writers.
and whether I get a good review or a
bad one
I take neither
seriously.

I am on the next page.
the next book.

The Other Michael

I can't imagine what possessed you to open this thread in MF&P, so I'm pitching it off to ~~Elsewhere~~ as the forum of last resort, where no doubt it will meet whatever fate it deserves.

Michael
MF&P Moderator (Maximus)

The Other Michael

My language above was harsh and inappropriate. I should have just moved the thread to ~~E~~ without editorializing, and I apologize to sweep for any slight that may have been perceived in my words.

Michael

(edited to correct a preposition and lack of a space between words)