Thursday, January 28, 2016

Worrying Kind

First the Gin Store, then the Thai Massage.  Gone. What in Holy’s name is coming to the world, otherwise seen as the other side of my street? That leaves the Sex Shop and the Drug Paraphernalia Establishment. Is my primal view entering in a gentrification phase, heading into a different reading of the slogan “Liberal Arts,” that granular freedom from our bodily prisons? Here comes Java I thought. Or more bike stores, I assessed looking at the Bike Store across the street.

“They left,” swaggered the tabloid, hoisting up its trousers and scratching its balls, “Amsterdam to save their marriage.” A shocker. Photo of geraniums on farm, blue jeans in sun, ragged surroundings needing a paint job.  Detox city for wood. Is Amsterdam the capital of vice?  The sinker and stinker of marriages, the rampant offerings of temptation?  And cow patties the answer?

What do I know?  Perhaps for some….maybe we need more Java stores.

I was sitting in the waiting room eyeing the tabloids. I was worrying as well.  I mean what would the surgeon think of me eyeing the tabloids? I wanted to come across as intelligent. Frankly I don’t know why I worry so much. He was puttering back and forth from his office to the reception with each patient.  I was back for my final check. I felt fine, other than the worrying. Maybe it was the place, I mean hospitals should make us worry, otherwise we might be delusional.

“I was convinced, convinced it was on Thursday,” the woman in a beige coat and 70 year old hair complained to the reception, “but now I realize I made a huge mistake.” We were sitting in Thursday. “I was supposed to come on Tuesday.” She repeated to herself her mistake, her ancient husband sat next to her silent. “It’s really rather stupid of me.” She fretted.  “Stupid.” She twittered on about it until she was called into a consultation room. The door shut. “It can happen to anyone.” Her husband said clearly to no-one in particular.

But really I wondered sitting on the 13 back to the center, listening to a quintessential Amsterdam accent over the tram’s loudspeakers, the sun was shining, my grocery list was forming in my mind, what vice?  Salad, apple, soda water, potato chips the really greasy kind, and maybe some cold cuts. Stones, I added to my list. Maybe I should put stones into the pots.  Or a gadget….as my colleague suggested.

“Just wait for the tourists to leave,” she paused in between clicks.  I was lying on my stomach in the rain on a fairytale bridge in front of my latest project, my A(msterdam) Pot Poems.  We were having a photo shoot. “You need to put something else in there,” she advised, “besides the poem.”  I held an A(msterdam) Pot Poem in each hand in front of a house. The wind nearly blew them out of my hands. Worldly temptation I’m guessing.

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