Amsterdamned Forever

Days like this are some of my favourite. The smell of coffee wafting along Bloor Street as the rain mists my face; Chris Isaak's Wicked Game soothing my iHead while limousines shuffle Hollywood-type pre-film fest sojourners to their booked-a-year-ago suites. Though this is present day Toronto, on days like this I am time-shifted back to damp Amsterdam, where I once lived for a short time.

I could barely control my urge to stride past my office this morning and find some comforting place harbouring warm croissants and earthy koffie creamed with sweet, vanilla-y koffiemelk. But that kind of spontaneity only comes in small bubbles these days: The casualty of an important, responsible workaday role. Pfft.

There may be nothing better in this cruel world than the feeling of carelessly wiling away hours at a canal-side cafe, by yourself, thumbing through Camus and eyeing some gorgeous blonde beauty from behind your desperately sweating pint of Oranjeboom. Or cradling a hot mug of Turkish java in the open window of a Dam coffee shop, with the thick incense of sweet hash in your throat and nostrils and Burning Spear gently massaging your soul from the smokey womb of dark wood floors and panels.

The depth of such experience is only measurable by the state of relaxation it inspires. The head room for introspection cannot be bought or sold. It can only come from abandon. And for the first time in years, I feel that reaching that depth is once again a distinct possibility. I am renewing the lease on my soul -- on my terms.

WARNING: Over the next while, (well, for as far as I can see from this limited vantage point) you might want to visit my archives - or the COMMENTS section for each post- if you are looking for the regular blasphemous, foul shite. I am in a deeply introspective mood lately (in case you haven't noticed), so these pages may make you want to puke, fall in love with me or leave me forever. All options are not only understandable, but encouraged.