Flat on the floor of the Apple store
Unable to lift a finger
Plumb out of gas and on her ass
She decided, however, to linger
For the locals seemed kinder
The worst was behind her
Or so, she most fervently hoped
And though not a native
It made her creative
And she hadn't even doped.
So it is looking good for the apartment I loved, for which I have applied, and am waiting just for approval to move in June 2nd. In the meanwhile I am ensconced in the flat of my new friend Daniel, a professional problem solver. Daniel comes from a Pentacostal papa, a priest who became a teacher, and is certainly a good advertisement for his religion, though he doesn't believe in any. But he practices kindness, the best of the Virtues, in my opinion, and has taken me in till it is time to take possession of the flat.
It is lucky I am with a professional problem solver, as this has been as difficult as anything I have been through in my life. Not knowing where I was going, or if I would make it through to get there has been the least of it. First there was Fred, the realtor/huckster/should be felon who leased me the studio/slum here, with its many tenement-like levels, who should more aptly be labeled felon. Daniel says not to let him get to me, that that way he wins. Still, I would like to expose him. Amsterdam is full of hustlers, those who have come here looking for the clever kill. Happily I think I am past all those guys. At least I hope so.
In the meantime, I have almost moved into a truly uplifting environment where although the designer/owner neglected to include a medicine cabinet, you feel like you won't get sick. I skipped my Bryn Mawr class reunion much as I loved those women, and hope they had a great weekend looking back. I opted to try and look ahead.
AND IT IS A NEW DAY. A kind doctor who lives in the building has been ministering to me, testing my skin to see if it bounces back, or I do. My body is broken from walking these punishing stones, and I went out on my terrace this morning-- my landlord has let me stay in the apartment in spite of my accountant's not sending the money yet, which puzzles me-- and looked down at probably one of the world's most glorious views. In the distance, cathedrals and museums, just below motorboats and the occasional renegade houseboat, across the water in front of the dock, picture-book houses, as in a fairy tale. But just below the water is thick with garbage. One great plastic bag fully loaded floats in between what appears to be an endless array of torn pieces of paper. And stubbornly sailing along atop the mess is one fat black pigeon.
I suppose that's me. Insisting on finding beauty in a world that seems not to be looking for it anymore, except maybe in Angela Jolie. But I am hoping to conclude my business today with the owner of the place, so airy and full of light, I cannot help but have my spirits lifted, even as I cringe.
You all have to come.
