Houd Je Nog Een Beetje Van Mij?

Cafe De Kat in De Wijngaert, Amsterdam

    Some people have a snout for sniffing out the best bar around. I'm not one of these people but luckily, I was traveling alongside one of these special few. As God would have it, we visited the best bar in the universe last night. At least that’s what Niels, our newfound Dutch friend, said. It started with Jake and I “minding our business”. We ordered a drink each. He played chess and I wrote in my journal about the wonderful day that it had been. When going up to order another drink at the bar, I heard a man yell something across the room, to another man in Spanish. I turned myself and said, “Oh! Hablas Español?” He said, “Y tú, amiga??” That was invitation enough for him to join us at our table.

    It went from there. This perfect night. We talked there for maybe an hour. About America and vulgarity. About how men only want to talk about sports or politics. This theory was proven after I left the table to use the restroom and when I returned, the men had found their way back to the playful violence that both sports and politics contain. I was the only woman in the bar. I did not feel threatened or intimidated. I like to listen to what men have to say. Sometimes they’re begging to be heard, and I’ve always been a very curious cat anyway. I should add that I really only enjoy these kinds of dynamics if the men at hand are reciprocal in their attention. If they are also wondering what my thoughts are on the subject. What I can sniff out, if not the best bar in the universe, is a man pretending to care. 

    Every once in a while, an older man with a gorgeous ponytail, would walk by, looking over Jake’s chess board. He’d sneakily smile and move a piece or keep an opinion about the game to himself. He had humorous, mischievous eyes. We kept asking him to sit and play but I think he was enjoying the other patrons of the bar and the ongoing fútbol game. Niels wrote down the bar-specific cuss words that him and his friends like to use while enjoying their drinks. “Hepatitis B” was my favorite. In hindsight, I think he was the only one using this vocabulary. I say this because he seemed to me one of those people who take part in the world, eagerly, beautifully- and yet spending such a large amount of time dowsed in a world of their own. Sort of like me. 

    I should mention that this entire night began with Jake and I eating Chinese food (really outstanding Chinese food) and arguing over whether or not I have the ability to get drunk. I’ve been convinced that no matter how much I drink lately, I can’t seem to get drunk-even buzzed! He bet me that if we got two drinks in me, I’d be giggling and stumbling over myself. Stumbling over outer space. Cafe De Kat in De Wijngaert is where we arrived to test the theory. My really dumb theory. 

    Drink one went alright. Drink two introduced us to all of our new Dutch friends and it also became my new outfit. As I sat down at the table, with two very fancy glasses of gin and tonic, the one closest to me dumped halfway in my lap. Niels kept saying, “It’s okay, darling. It’s more than okay.” I told him that Jake had officially won our bet. He had also won a skull achingly close chess game earlier that day. I had had enough of Jake winning and told Niels all about how aggravating it is to have lost every single game of chess against him for the last two years that we have been dating. All Niels said was, “Forget that. Dissolve your ego. There’s no winning anyway.” Yea, of course I know that. It still sucks. 

    New characters slowly started trickling into the bar. Xander (ponytail guy) finally stopped and played chess with Jake, promising me to play as brutal as possible. I needed to be avenged and was grateful. Niels talked to me about his mother who passed last August. I asked what she was like. He said, “beautiful”. I could see the grief in his face. I could see him as a young Dutch boy in Amsterdam in a beautiful grocery store walking around with his beautiful mother. Going home to their narrow, brick home. He told me she had died in her sleep. We both smiled. Not everyone gets that lucky.

    Niels kept saying this cute Dutch phrase to patrons as they trinkled into the bar. "Houd Je Nog Een Beetje Van Mij?" I noticed this and asked what it meant. 

"Do you still love me a little?" 

    We all ventured outside for a smoke. Some cigarettes and a joint, provided by Xander (though at this point I was referring to him as Sensei because this is what Niels had been calling him). I can’t remember who brought it up but Pass the Dutchie was the song everyone was singing as we smoked and laughed. I asked Sensei what he laughs like and he got another sneaky look on his face. He kept saying that he didn’t care anymore. That he loved Americans. We won the bar over, it seemed.

    Everyone really hates Trump here. How well informed they are. We shared in our grief and shame for our country. When we praised our new friends for being so up to date with American politics. Niels laughed and said, “We’re bored!” More laughing. More beautiful laughing. Finally, Niels brought out his rosary and started talking about God. He told us that he does not believe in coincidences. My heart must have been running through my ribs. I touched his arm and said, “I don’t believe in God. I know God.” We shared a smile and blabbed about love and life and the movie Amèlie. What a perfect stranger. Though he no longer felt far away in that way. As the night crawled forward, Niels began to feel more like a long-lost friend or a crazy uncle. We took a selfie in the cold. I didn't want to forget his little smile. I didn't want to forget anything. 

    By the end of the night, the bar bill found itself to be almost as high as all of us standing outside and the bar was closing down. We stood around while they locked up the place and we talked some more with this guy from Guatemala and his friend from Morocco. They told us stories about how they met Niels and by this point, everyone was so high and giggly that anything would’ve had us bent over ourselves. They asked if we wanted to join them in finding a different bar, but it was the end of our road. I had laughed enough for the week. 

    We all hugged and said our goodbyes. Xander pulled me in and whispered a very gentle “thank you.” I won over Sensei multiple times over. I'll say one more thing: I'm not a greedy woman with my experiences. I know when I've had enough to drink, enough laughter, enough inspiration to write my next page. We could have followed them to the subsequent bar but what for? With a cup so full, I'm bound to spill. 

Diaries from Europe

Flight to Amsterdam

    Going over the Atlantic Ocean, Jake and I unsuccessfully tried to knock ourselves out with Dramamine. Once we accepted our failure, we watched My Own Private Idaho together. Perfectly syncing our back of the plane chair TVs. It was my second time watching it and I found it less tragic, more Shakespearian. A similar movie came to mind: Paris, Texas. Same long, slow shots over rural America. Same look of desolation and confusion on the main character's faces. 

    I can't believe I am going back to Europe. I'm thinking of my friend Giuly a lot. All of the beautiful things she has seen with her eyes. We were so happy running around Barcelona together a few summers ago. Speaking Spanish and eating strange cuts of meat. Wondering how we thought our stomachs could handle it in the first place. She told us that it is vital to visit Anne Frank's house. I'd like to go and pay her some respect. 

Amsterdam, Netherlands 

   I have never seen an address as long as the one we will be borrowing for 10 days. The travel day ended up wrecking my "holy shit I'm in Europe" attitude. My ears clogged horribly on the plane, and I grew weaker and weaker as we navigated the airport, trains, and a bus to get to where we are staying. I fell asleep after a tired cry. I am so vulnerable when I travel. I'm pretty bad at it. It's a labor of love for me, always. When I woke up from my cat nap, Jake had yogurt, berries (which the Dutch refer to as 'forest fruit'?) and croissants. Some espresso with delicious local cream and I was saved from my own suffering. You must remember: a rough start does not imply a rough stay. Bread and sleep, baby. Bread and sleep.  

Anne Frank Day

    Yesterday we fought through our jet lag and ended up having a very special time in the city. Thanks to our obliterated and out of wack circadian rhythms, we woke up extremely early and waited for a bakery to open. Bakkerji Wolf was the name. Shakshuka for Jake and pancakes for me. We popped our little heads into some shops, embarrassed ourselves badly at a hotel where we tried to con the front desk clerk into giving us a free phone charger adapter, and finally found ourselves at Anne Frank's house. 

    It's difficult to describe how it felt to be inside such a historical and heavy place. The streets of Amsterdam feel so happy, even in Winter. The houses are whimsically built, all in rows and facing gorgeous canals. Everyone is dressed beautifully and biking to what I imagine in their lover's house. How was it that years and years ago Nazis were driving up and down the streets and committing mass murder? Surely that was not here. I remembered that even I live in a place that was brutally stolen. Violent history leaves a rotten stench on even the loveliest modern places. 

    Inside the annex, I stared at Anne Frank's portrait for minutes at a time. It felt as if she were looking back at me. Her biggest dream was to be a successful writer. Her fate was cruel, but I thank God that her dream came true in the end. I found her writing so antsy, hopeful, and youthful. The anticipation and yearning she must have felt, being in hiding for two whole years. Being denied the right to feel the sun on her face. Children need life around them. I felt sickened by what Germany got away with. So many angels in heaven. Anne Frank with her own special seat. 

    After digesting our visit, we walked through the unbelievably stunning nearby church. At Le Bastille, we ate eggplant, fava beans, bell peppers, rice, green beans, and chicken. The chef in the open kitchen ground large amounts of pistachio and hazelnut for baklava. I enjoy the restaurants in Europe and Asia where you walk in and they serve one thing. The day ended softly with Aperol drinks at a bar and a few rounds of playing cards. We watched The Sopranos until our eyes became heavy. 

Wijk aan Zee, Netherlands

    Not working is bliss.  For the past few months, I have been consistently working six-day work weeks, and it has been...harrowing. Being here is relaxing and I am reminded of the fruits of my labor as I enjoy my leisure, far away from my daily routine. These are some of the best moments in life. Where you have the privilege of truly getting away and seeing yourself in a new light. Jake and I took a train to a small Dutch village off the coast of the North Sea. We attended the Tata Steel Chess Tournament. Accidentally arriving early, we killed time by walking along the beach and collecting shells. Later we ate fish soup at a weird seaside cafe. Then we watched the most famous modern chess players compete against each other. The venue was silent. Everyone tuning into each and every move made by the players. It was novel. Jake and I played our own game of chess at the mermaid-esque bar around the way. 

    Hopping back on the bus, and then a train, we arrived back in Amsterdam and ate at Pesca. A restaurant where you pick out your fish and wine in a market. Then they cook it up for you minutes later. We ate ceviche, seaweed butter on bread, potato with grilled leek, prawns, scallops, and burrata and beet salad. Best of all: a salted whole sea bass. Fish is God's meat. 

    Brussels, Belgium

    My twenty-fifth birthday was spent in a state of awe and gratitude. It started with reading Patti Smith's "Bread of Angels" in bed. Just the right book and just the right woman to start the day off with. She's a real guru of mine. An omnipresent grounding force. When I read her writing, I feel like I am taking in sage advice tailored to my very ear. From Patti's pen to my heart. Yoga in the kitchen while Jake sipped coffee and of course...played chess. Woodpecker 47 served us insane pancakes (my favorite thing about America). I was transfixed by Belgium. There are three main languages spoken there: French, Dutch, and German. We discovered the best vintage store in the universe: Melting Pot Kilo. Right there in the middle of the city. 

    Our apartment was also centrally located. Every ten minutes the ancient bones of the apartment would shake with the passing by of the train. Jake bought me a massage in a nice spa where the woman cracked me like a chiropractor. Not exactly what I signed up for but...I feel really good. After being folded in quarters, we ran to this nearby gyro place where we had previously visited the day before. Everything about this gyro was right. We watched one of the Greek staff members of the restaurant chase a crazy (possibly shoplifting) teenager down the cobblestone alley and into a huge crowd of tourists. Yelling in spiteful and passionate French. It was a sight. To digest, a walk uphill, following the beautiful towering view of a church felt poignant. Back to our place for a nap and a Sopranos episode. Dinner was at a Portuguese restaurant where the language barrier was harder than expected. 

    We were on a time limit, with pending tickets to The Toon Theatre. A French theatre that puts on puppet shows a few nights a week. On my birthday, they would be performing "The Three Musketeers". We thought we would miss the show, but we were just lucky enough to make it. It was, naturally, all in French. Despite not understanding the dialogue it was enchanting enough to hold our interest. Hundreds of previously used puppets hung from the ceiling all around the theatre which was, yea, creepy. But awesome. The experience really was fabulous, and my birthday felt just the same. It was one of the first birthdays where I felt zero weirdness. My ground felt a little more established. Look at me, seeing a little French show in a new country with my angel of a boyfriend. Miracles happen every day. I can't say thank you enough...

I am writing this from a beautiful pub back in Holland. I will keep you updated with details as they come. I met a crazy stoned Dutch guy yesterday and I really need to tell you about him. Crazy people are the best. Here's my view from where I wrote all this down: 

Love you!

Snake Charmer Librarian

Dear Diary,
    Having something to look forward to is a vital, secret, kept under wraps tool to navigate Winter. I am very much looking forward to being on a remote ranch in the middle of the Texan hills for a handful of days this Christmas. Holding babies and hopefully joining in on new traditions. Traditions of love and memory. That will bring me to a good place within myself and closer to Jake, who I adore. 
    I will also be turning twenty-five in one month. A month from Christmas Eve. On my birthday, I will be in Amsterdam, with a heart full of butterflies. Praying the sun is out that day although it will be in Netherlands in the middle of Winter. I feel that I have already made my younger self unbearably proud, but she deserves to be in Amsterdam for her birthday. She deserves that. The woman I am right now deserves that. It is all just cherries on top of an already very stunning life. My luck doubles the longer I live. 
    University begins in January, and I can finally un-pause my education quest. This wakes up every bone in my body. Being in a classroom for hours upon hours a week, a month. I can hardly wait. I keep having this fantasy where I only dress in long, flowing, white clothing while I attend class and while I study. White is the color that absorbs everything in front of it, around it, above it. My heart wants to soak through all knowledge bestowed unto me and I feel strongly about the retention of all that I have the privilege to learn. Please, God, don't let any of this slip between my fingers. 
    Today at work I got politely scolded for clocking in and then immediately using the bathroom. I was told that I should be "using the restroom on my own time and THEN clocking in to work. Or I should announce that I am taking a break after I have already been working for a while and THEN using the bathroom". As I was listening, I thought to myself, "I'm going to go to school" and everything drifted away. 
    On another note, remember a few months ago when I said that this Fall, I was going to be the sexiest I've ever been? Done! Perhaps it had something to do with plucking my eyebrows extremely thin? Was that the catalyst? Probably. As I said before, sexiness is 20% appearance and 80% percent attitude, flair, aura, etc. This Fall, I tried to hold myself differently. I tried new hairstyles, wore shoes that boosted up my posture. I listened to music that made me feel like I was a snake charmer stuck in a hot librarian's body. Stuff like Prince Innocence, Blood Orange, Kim Yaffa, Smerz, FKA twigs, and Little Annie. And being the sexiest version of yourself doesn't mean you sell yourself away to Aphrodite's will. Or that you take on any other muse's carbon copy of style and heart. You must be you. There is no other way to be sexy. Imitation breeds failure. 
    You must tap into what specifically makes you ooze oo la la. For me? I really love reading. Knowledge is steamy. Anytime I have ever had a horribly distracting crush, I probably picked up on the fact that they knew something that I didn't. And I needed to find out just what that was. Intellect is promising, curious, and mystery. It is sexy! That's where I'm sitting anyhow. So I started there. I wore more rectangular glasses. Mostly wire-trimmed or an unexpected color. I rolled up my hair into slick buns with an excess of pins and clips. I wore turtlenecks that were form fitting or tight shirts with collars. Soft knits, too. Clothing that could be found underneath professional blazers but wasn't. That'd be overkill. 

    The story goes that it is nice to have goals. Even silly, worldly ones like "being the sexiest I have ever been this Fall". I didn't take it too seriously because that usually doesn't get me anywhere meaningful or authentic. I just had fun and looked forward to what playing with my avatar every day would bring. Caring too much about how I looked was never the ultimate goal (dissolving the space between God and I a little bit every day being what I actually try to fix my eyes on) but it was good play. Focus is healthy. Goals are, too. What might be the sexiest thing of all? Devotion. But we will get to that next year.

Insignificant but Created Anyway

    Since we've last spoke, so much has been alive inside of me. The desire to unfurl each ounce of detail relentlessly and recklessly is stronger than the urge to reproduce these feelings eloquently. I'm going to do my best. 

    Around the tail end of Autumn, I read Gabi Abrão's "Notes on Shapeshifting". In the fashion of any good book, things went from there. I, myself, was closing an important chapter in my life (which I am always doing, and I always say I am doing but this time I mean it). For two years and in three separate apartments, I lived alone. It was my two years of Rest and Relaxation on speed. So much crying. So much dancing. So many candle-lit dinners alone. Painting the walls. Drunk in my kitchen making omelets. I was happy. Really, really happy. I would tell myself that I was "Burning My Fire for No Witness" like Angel Olsen's album. It's a good mantra, I've found. 

    Like all magnificent seasons, it had to end. Not end, necessarily, but shapeshift. I took a lot of heart and reasoning from Abrão's book. It made me feel strong in facing impending change. My boyfriend and I decided to move in together in October and many of the shapes I was used to look different now. I got so used to saying "I" this or "my" that. Being a part of a unit, sharing forks and spoons, compromising, sharing with someone, face to face, at the end of each day felt so new. Sometimes it still does. It is a special type of life when you share it. What I enjoy most is knowing how parallel our lives seem to be in this moment. I have a sense that neither of us will get lost in the other's story. 

    We went to Chicago shortly after moving in together and it was simply perfect. The towering buildings made me feel like a small fish in a vast ocean. Insignificant but created anyway. Breathing despite whatever. The Hispanic food flooded us with memories and comfort. That's something we miss being so far from our original homes. We ran around the city, rode the train, listened to music, watched episodes of The Wire back at our Airbnb. Saw the museums, touched Lake Michigan's water, and gawked at every layer of brick we saw. I also discovered Irish car bombs. Those are awesome. We were in the wind, he and I. I love when we're like that. 

    Everything feels like it is going so fast, even now that it is Winter. One thing you should know about me is that I dislike anything that feels as though it is going against its nature. I'm feeling unsettled as Winter is a time to get into your cave. I've slowed down somewhat but sometimes there is too much fun to be had. I also got accepted to the local university and will be starting there soon. School will only quicken the speed at which all this is going but I also know that my cup will be overflowing. If I am in a classroom, I am seated with joy. Hoping to slow down when I can, breathe deeply when the Winter blues threaten their worst, and remember that there is a new day every day. A new day to change the things within me that make my experiences tougher than they need to be. A new day to be gentle to the judgement I tend to place on people and things when I am uncomfortable with myself. A new day to continue to be this person I have been and open my arms to her, without flinching.

    Honestly, I would not say that this is the best I have ever felt. I have not been meditating as much and when I go to work, I feel a foreign and new sense of existentialism. Sometimes even dread. I am working with those signals and staying on the side of curiosity. My body still has much to teach me, as my breathing has become difficult over the last couple of months and my stomach still puts me through challenges. I am learning that my body is not a project, not a lab result, or a piece of a frustrating puzzle. It is a temple and a tether to the Earth. A gift from something I feel currently a bit far away from. It is comforting to believe that aches and pains are not futile. 

    Even if I have nothing, I have the ability to choose my inward lens. This is a time in my life where many things feel destabilizing and many, many things are so beautiful I cannot look at them for too long. God is in between every hunch on this page. They're going to be at my Irish car bomb themed housewarming party, too. I missed you. I hope you don't think I'm an absent older sister with big feelings. Be warm and always say what you mean. 

Martyr!

     Planes are the best place to finish a book. You are above the human world, engine noises buzzing and humming, and best of all- everyone is leaving you alone. Only here can you absorb and envelope into the loving embrace of a sentence perfected, for it seems, only your eyes to hungrily consume. I finished Kaveh Akbar's Martyr! while in the sky this afternoon. So many, many tears hit my shoulders and danced sensually down my cheeks. After reading the Clarice Lispector quote on the final page, I closed the book and gave the cover a huge, wet kiss. Lipstick and all. 

    What can I ever give back to literature? What can I dawn onto the altar of word? The feeling this book has left me with is one of grace. It was dowsed in suffering, enlightened by acceptance, sick like war. There was bewilderment everywhere. Justice sang through the text. It was rotten with moments of deceit yet true like love. Martyr! was transparent, historic, and its ending tossed me into a pond of God-like clarity. Thank you and thank you. My love for writing, my impulse to extract my vast feelings from what I experience and sculpt them into a vessel through which I may be understood is-in a word- holy. 

 Saturday, Traveling to LA

    A bearded man poorly plays old Americana music while I listen to meditation music in my earphones to subtly drown the sound out. I am reading Kaveh Akbar's Martyr! 

One of the characters speaks of her novelist friend's response to a question she asks her. It strikes me like an alligator's jaw locking onto its dinner. She is asked if she methodically plans out her books step by step or if she writes as she goes, without a roadmap. The novelist's response being,

    "Behind me is silence and ahead of me is silence."

 

Monday, Traveling home

    I finished Martyr! on my return flight. It was as if all the angels in heaven intervened and granted me the uncommon luxury of two empty seats beside me. I let out every sob necessary with each remaining page I turned. Too many whimpers of resonance to count. In her own words, the character Orkideh says, 

    "I was not often 'a person to whom things happened'. And when I was, I had the sanctuary of imagination of art."  

Mediums

    August used to be a sore thumb on the list of months for me. That was long ago. Certainly, before I moved to the Pacific Northwest and began to indulge in the end of summer delights. The rivers fill with glacier water, and I nap under a baseball cap. My fingers, stained with dark red fruit juice. My dear friend came to visit me. They call this place 'another home'. This time of year, the golden spiders weave intricate webs and worlds. I like to imagine that I am walking around in a reality they spun. Stars in my eyes. Dizzy and drunk on the seasons. 

    My friend brought along their new partner and what a treasure it was to see them happy in love again. Love can wake even the most dormant joys up from sleep. I watched him take pictures of Hope throughout the handful of days we spent together. Laying on my brutish, neon green lounge chair, hair black as death, Hope sprawled out into a look of deep rest. Carlos took the picture. A muse, whether they know it or not. Some things are obvious to me. 

    We drove to Astoria for the day and stopped to take many polaroids. The pirate town was evocative. Of what? I can't put my finger on it yet. On the long drive back into the city, Hope rolled their window down and posed into the highway wind for Carlos' camera. A clean shot slides out of the mouth and so develops a black and white image of Hope, wind-blown and dreamy in their new deep aqua beret. Freshly twenty-four years old. Immortal feeling. 

    Since their visit, I have found myself drawn to pick up my film camera and capture the in-between moments more often. When creativity strikes me and I find myself inspired, my hands find a pen and paper and conjure up words before I've even begun to process what possessed me in the first place. Writing is such an automatic response for me. So much so that I found my inclination towards taking pictures to be, at first, atypical. A month or so later and I've filled nearly two rolls of film, of course, with Hope and Carlos in my heart's process. 

    Just yesterday, during a trip to LA, I shot some pictures of my friend Bee. She has always had a heavenly look to her. Almost as if she was not born of this Earth. Or if she were, she was the very first woman. We found this incredible tree in the middle of a nondescript park in the city. Scouting the perfect spot, we were awe-stricken by the most amazing tree. I can't quite translate what was so captivating about it. It wasn't necessarily its leaves or shape. Nor its branches or placement, but rather its energetic radiance. Just like Bee. I knew I wanted to take some photos of her there immediately. 

    My favorite thing to take photos of is a moment of transition. The moment just before someone says something wonderful and a room full of people laugh. Just before genius manifests. My friend Beaux, reaching over the bench to grab their drink. Jake in the kitchen chopping garlic before it sizzles in the pan. Someone on the street right before they get on the bus. I've never been fond of posing, of anything too manufactured or far from nature. 

Show it to me like it really is or I'll close my eyes. 

    I am so desperately infatuated with the human ability to capture meaning. To hold it in my palms, despite their trembling at the sacred glory of it. What would anything be without us being able to have it flow through us and give it to art? What a blessing to give ourselves to art in the ways that we do. I don't make too many promises but what I feel I can promise myself and all of you now is that while I'm breathing, I willingly grant myself the birthright of being open to the mediums through which I can animate God's gentleness. Pinky swear.