The Basest of All Things

("Prom Dress" Series)

Amsterdam.  Everybody goes.  I've never been.  Today I'll watch the Netherlands play in the World Cup, and if they win, I will watch them in the finals.  And I'm thinking that before the summer is up, I should go to Amsterdam.

I am at loose ends without any clear plans.  The weight of the summer bears heavy on me, the moist heat and frustration of living in the far south where heat and humidity cause anger and depression.  Read a Faulkner novel for a good idea.  When summer comes, somebody is going to be lynched or stabbed or raped or thrown down a well.  It is just not good times.  So Amsterdam sounds enticing.  From there. . . ?

Have you been?  Send me some ideas.  I'm plum (plumb?) out.

The photo is of a pretty girl, the same one from a few posts back.  She is strange looking here.  I did not manipulate the image other than what I normally do.  I mean, I did not try to make her look strange.  But the picture haunts me a little, she looking like the Voodoo Princess from some science fiction homecoming dance.  Images such as these populated my dreams last night.  I did not sleep.  I figure my unconscious is trying to work out all my insecurities right now, but then again, maybe it has no strategy for working them out.  We tend to think divinely about such things as if nature had a plan.

I got out of bed long before light, but now the sun is up and shining as it hasn't for days.  I think I'll dwell on a Faulkner quote for awhile:

"A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid" (William Faulkner).