This is, finally, another actual chapter from my memoir, Apeshit.
Red lightning flashed, arcing in the sky over the Prinsengracht, making cosmic reflections for us all, as I took a huge lungfull of Nederweed Dutch Superpolm #47. My green glass hookah gurgled with all the gorgeous intonations of the borborygmi of the spheres. Strumming my ukulele, I sang "And the band played on." It was 3 A.M. At last, I was feeling no pain (finally!)
The black and white cat that hung out in the back courtyard of the Hotel Prinsen mewed melodically, as if, perhaps, he liked the song. Meanwhile, back in the jungle (of my hotel room) I was busy writing a screenplay for a bunch of rich, spoiled, silly-assed actresses and actors that will not be named here. They will, however be named in another chapter. The regen lovingly pelted the Japanese miniature oak trees and the pines in the terrace. I was fortunate enough to have a room on the ground floor (which is, like, the basement, in Europe)--my windows opened out onto the patio of the terrace. Windows slightly ajar, so I could smell the rain and the perfume of the jasmine flowers that were about 8 meters from the room. The fragrance, combined with the lovely taste and smell of the kif was ecstatically orgasmic. Truly. By this point I was getting pretty mellow and relaxed, feelin' good. The words were coming easily to my hand as I re-wrote the screenplay in longhand. My computer was too unreliable and "weirdly glitchy"--unpredictable in a predictable unfunny pattern, if you get my drift. I had just had fantastic sex with an alien-themed duo of beautiful escorts, and earlier that day I had a surprise visit from my Dutch girlfriend, who only had fifteen minutes, literally. She was being held against-her-will by a bunch of "Romulan"-sympathizer fascist assholes at a place called "Mentrum" on Tweede Constantijn Huygenstraat.
She had a 45-minute "pass" to go outside. I visited her there at the concentration camp ("Mentrum") as often as I was permitted and always smuggled her shaggies that I had previously rolled with good Lebanese hash inside. Back to the moment in the rainstorm, yours truly was doing the 97th re-write of the Star Trek screenplay for the ungrateful infidels (at Paramount Pictures.) Thunder erupted with a powerful magnitude (I estimated about 110 decibels--really,)---the sound, via my delightful cocktail of kif and shots of Bessenjenever, morphed into a thundercast of "Shut-The-Fuck-Up!", (a pop-song I heard in a disco on Leidseplein.) I was nearly nude, wearing nothing but my Georgio Armani silk underwear that I bought for 35 Euros at Magna Plaza. Nee, I also had the Japanese yukata I had just bought that very day in Zeedijk, on as well.
The sweet woman at the counter in the Asian store in the Zeedijk area told me "you have a green and orange penis," whatever that meant. To which, I replied, "whatever" and "bedankt." I had done my usual re-wiring of the hotel room, turning off/disabling all the usual moron-supervision devices. The sconce lighting fluorescent bulbs were still a bit too bright due to the 5 grams of Copelandia cyanescens I had for breakfast earlier that day. So, I put my purple "Eat It Raw" tee-shirt (from the Silver Bucket Oyster Bar that I had saved since I was 15 years old) over the top of the sconce. It added a nice hue to the visuals that were still playfully lingering. The bed was still wet and reeked of pussy and cum. The cool welcome humidity of this soaked though the yukata. Incidentally, FYI, these visuals were not kaleidoscopic fractal imagery, rather, strange black and white elfin-looking two-dimensional creatures that scurried playfully around the room, touching nothing. Re-starting the re-write of the third section of the screenplay, wherein I tissue-interview Seven-Of-Nine, with a cat-o-nine-tails, I, Andre, was startled suddenly (very suddenly!) from my reverie and peaceful oasis on my Amstel river of tranquility by a female moaning in Taiwanese-dialect Mandarin---loudly.
She was obviously orgasming and involuntarily howled this wonderful sound--which simultaneously struck me as beautiful and also caused me to do one of those cartoon-like "hybeea-hybeeah" double-takes, and quickly realize that I recognized that voice. It was Sabrina Lee, my former psychiatrist from California. I was dumbstruck! For once!
I had been living in Amsterdam for about three months and was currently experiencing "european cashflow problems." Sitting cross-legged, in the lotus position three earth-days prior to this, I had been meditating (literally) on a lovely bridge over a canal at Zeedijk. Tour buses had disgorged their loads of Asian tourists and they proceeded, led by a young woman holding little red flag, in a herd, to parade in front of me. Deep into meditation, I was not looking carefully at the people as they went by. De pronto, out of my right-eye peripheral vision I saw Sabrina Lee and her friend Huoung Ho moving to my right at a fairly quick pace. My head nearly exploded. I tried to yell, but I could not speak, and the din of the crowd chattering in 19 different languages along with the outboard motors of the boats passing beneath me under the bridge contributed to the impossibility of my being heard anyway. Quickly, attempting to get up and go chase after her, I found my legs were stiff and would not move fast enough, due to sitting in the lotus position for 1/2 hour. By the time I got to my feet, and regained speech, I ran in their direction, faster than most people move. But there were hundreds of faces, hundreds of Asian faces, hundreds of pretty and ugly Asian faces, but I could not find my lover. I searched in that direction and about the Chinatown area of Zeedijk for another forty-five minutes or so for my former psychiatrist, in vain. I was "barbecued." That really hurt.
Jumping back to three days in the future, I had just heard the "di'"(beautiful in Mandarin)--~sixty-second orgasm-moan-song. Then I instantly recognized the voice--because she and I had seen each other weekly from 1998 to 2004. I at that time was also a psychiatrist, and was seeing her for psychotherapy. Strangely enough, in June of 2004 we became lovers, but that is not in this book. However, hearing her wail, I was flabbergasted! And she had the frikkin' audacity and ovaries to track me (somehow) and rent the room above me and be fucking someone that I later learned through covert channels "allegedly" was Robert Kennedy, Jr! I stopped my writing project dead in my tracks and laid back in bed. I began to meditate and focus on the couple upstairs. I began to use some of Russell Targ's techniques. I got a vision of Sabrina's smiling face.
At first, I was homicidally angry! Then, I thought about her (and him.) Then, I just wanted to kill HIM. Then I laughed out loud. Because I always liked Robert Kennedy (his dad, except for his heinous decision in the Senate illegalizing LSD-25.) And, I had kept up with Robert Kennedy, Jr.'s legal work on the environment and liked what he had done. So, the progression of feeling-thoughts is: at first a strong urge to kill both of them with a "Klingon" Ba'Le'th, then just kill him, then maybe just slap her, but ultimately I decided to say what the hell and vowed I would never send RKF, Jr. any more money.
To this day I haven't given any more money to his organization, but I still admire his work, and I was happy that, at least Sabrina was fucking Democrats! That was a good sign. I took it as a Buddhist good sign. I may have been the first Democrat she ever fucked.....and I am glad I helped her see the light.
No comments:
Post a Comment