Creative: Amsterdam Notes

The High Season: Day One. It has begun. The great influx of tourists from all corners of the globe descend on the diminutive streets of inner Amsterdam. The ancient brick and mortar handles it all, barely. Loud shouts and noises from distant corners. A young girl melts down on the sidewalk. Too many mooncakes, too little time. “You’ll be okay,” the boyfriend says, “Just need to get you back to the hotel.” Signs on the street say “Celebrate like you live here.” Wishful thinking. Too little too late. Packs of small boys with large spliffs careen around corners, hoods up, eyes red, minds running to the internal horizon.

My mind is clear. No mooncakes, bong hits, mega-canna gummies, brownies or anything else. Too much to do, and a too many Lyme years when I lost my clarity. Now I cherish it, talk to it, treat it with care. Wonder how I managed without it for so long. And I’ve got work to do. Not here on vacation. Can’t function as a tourist. One more day and then the great slog back to the high desert.

Books. Photography. That’s why I’m here.

These two innocuous items are the centerpiece of my life, both personal and professional. I’ve been all in for many years, as you know, and no matter what I do to extract myself I just can’t seem to do it. Spoiled. That’s what it is. I’m spoiled. A week in Menorca watching focused, driven people take their work to new levels. More than anything else, I help steer. That’s all. The genius lives inside them. I stay out of the way while making subtle suggestions based on observation and a long history of studying the world around me. Water to a photographic flower waiting to bloom.

I’ve been to this city many times. I enjoy it. Walkable. Historical. And the bikes. “Could you live here?” she asks. “Of course,” I reply. I could but it would be a challenge. Accustomed to distance, sun, scale and The Solace of Open Spaces. But you adapt. Like a photographer. To what lives in front and around. Otherwise, pack it in. Life too grand, too complicated, flawed and tragically beautiful to live for one thing and one thing only.

Intention. That’s it. Or purpose maybe. That’s the one step up to get my attention. Stay even or dip below with intention or purpose, and you land in weenie territory. A no man’s land of the purposely unintentional. Random bad not random good. Chatter. Veiled threats of exertion. Empty calories. Lives run by the thoughts of others. The sun is out. It’s here. Just in time for our little gathering. I sit in a lobby filled with art books. Custom tables holding row upon row, and I had nothing to do with it. A suggestion from a friend and here I am. Architecture, interior design, art and photography. British, Spanish, Dutch, German, and American accents. Hugs, piercings and trainers down below no matter what lives up top. A walking nation as well.

Yes, the newsletter is coming. I told you I would send and I will. Just as soon as I return home, travel again, and then return once more. After that, I’ll do it. But in the meantime, tell me what you need. What can I provide that you find hard to source? Information? Opinion? My work? I know what I want to do, but out of morbid curiosity, I’m curious about your needs. I can guess buy someone will surprise me.

Spiderweb, cracked glass. Butts and bottles and debris of the unhoused. The hum of lobby refrigerators. The ping of elevators. We are a home to voyagers. Smart marketing. An email from the boss. Strategy. You don’t need to double dog dare me. I’ll respond. This is my thing. A chance to talk? Who me? Well, maybe just this one time. An email comprised on my phone as I attempt but muddle through multiple tasks at once. We have the best customers, but we as a company need to do better. Same as all companies. The Age of Shareholder has not been kind to the end product, us.

Back home the unhinged have become the norm. Manufacture a narrative and when it goes against you, change it up like a pitcher shaking off a sign. What did I say yesterday? Wait, no. That wasn’t me. That was you or them. Today I have a different story. And tomorrow there will be another, and another. False prophets making a profit. Shame on us for sinking this low. And such a monumental waste of time and resources. It’s bad when the best case scenario is someone passing away peacefully in their sleep. That should not be a political goal, and yet here we are. Cleared for takeoff lacks the luster when the destination falls in on itself. At least I have the airline meals to look forward to.