Paradise

Posted on March 31, 2025

I had thought about it. The American Photography exhibition at the Rijksmuseum. Then my phone via Facebook or Instagram or Osmosis-Goo suggested that I seriously consider buying a ticket, like right now, click the link and chakka-gotcha! The Rijksmuseum sits just around the corner from my apartment, a five minute walk. Motivated, I took the bait. Walking through the exhibit at 9 a.m. on a Monday morning, I thought about my age. From my memory bank I can understand the subject matter in the photographs, either because I was already born or my grandparents were alive during the early to mid 20th century era or because the historical photographs of locations were still somewhat recognizable to what I recall seeing when I lived in…

Categories: History, Memory, Mindfulness

Tagged: Amsterdam, Keith Kumasen Abbott, Mordecai of Monterey, Nevada, Persephone Abbott, Washington

Worms Riding the Air Waves

Posted on March 26, 2025

He opened up a ledger book. The ledger book looked familiar. Somewhere at my grandmother’s house on the outskirts of Tacoma back in the 1970’s I’d seen one that, it seemed to me, now appeared to have been transported to Amsterdam. I was standing in a narrow and crooked building that had been constructed in the 17th century. It was presently a tourist shop and a UPS pick up point. It was my third attempt at collecting my parcel. “You must file a police report.” The instructions from the Amazon-Ready-Set-Answer department were clear. My question had been, “Where is my package?” By this point I had already been to a designated pick up point twice. After two attempts at the pick up point, I…

Categories: Amsterdam, Mindfulness

Tagged: Amsterdam, Persephone Abbott

Pilgrimage

Posted on March 16, 2025

Reading Shakespeare and drinking tea are pleasant occupations. And drinking whiskey and reading Shakespeare are also pleasant occupations. A friend of mine and I meet up every so often and read a play together. We switch the parts freely. She’s a health care professional and during the break between transitioning from the tea to the whiskey part of the evening she said to me, “You know, living with a narcissist ages a person.” She meant literally ages a person physically, mentally and spiritually. I remembered myself at the age of seventeen when I couldn’t recall what I had done an hour previously. I wasn’t taking medication, I wasn’t under the influence of any substances. In despair I dyed my hair grey for a period…

Categories: Amsterdam, Memory, Mindfulness, Spirituality, Tourism

Tagged: Amsterdam, Keith Abbott, Keith Kumasen Abbott, Narcissism, Persephone Abbott, Pilgrimage

An Oar in a Puddle

Posted on July 11, 2024

letthegravytrainrollphone callplease fill in form andreturn to recruiterdo you think they willgive me thirty eurosfor these booksunemployment officeone way appointmentno need to confirmthat back bike tireused up all the cash I gotfor those second hand booksanyway got some exerciseand that’s a winI guess

Categories: Poetry

Tagged: Amsterdam, Flat Tire, Oar, Persephone Abbott, Poem, Puddle, Unemployment

The Professor’s Apples

Posted on May 14, 2022

On my wall there was a modest space available, large enough for a mirror, but then I thought, no, not a new mirror, better find a secondhand mirror, maybe oval or maybe rectangular. I felt there was an element missing between the paintings hanging on my wall and, besides, the middle part of my studio, the part between the front windows and the back balcony was a bit dark at times. A mirror might help. Did I, and I asked myself this while standing on the Keizersgracht one evening with a small object between my hands, favor this little mirror, poorly wedged into an old chipped frame? Someone had put it out on the street. I thought not. Months later, I passed by a…

Categories: Amsterdam, History

Tagged: Amsterdam, Apples, Persephone Abbott, Professor Sprenger

Fame Comes Knocking

Posted on February 15, 2022

My doorbell doesn’t work and nor does the buzzer. Hasn’t worked for ages, and I like it that way. People ask me how do you….? For a short while my downstairs neighbor was very obliging. But then she went, like so many have gone before, and now I have a downstairs neighbor who won’t open the street door. I don’t know his first name, but I noticed from the mail in his box that he is the owner of a bike delivery service. Maybe he’ll stick around more than five months. But back to the story, some time ago my downstairs neighbor, then a young exuberant Italian woman with a nose ring, buzzed open the street door. * A man stomped up two flights…