Wednesday, Jul. 09, 2003 - 10:54 pm
Um... I'm sorry.
This relationship just isn't working for me.
I'm at www.dailypreciousness.org now. So change that bookmark.
[Continued from previous entry.]
"Can you hear me now?" "Can you hear me now?" The guy in the black, thick-rimmed glasses walked all over the room and repeated this phrase.
It was right in the middle of the up-with-people religious service. That was part of the sermon. It was part performance art and part allegory. "God can always here us," the chunky eyeglasses-wearing guy in the tie at the podium reminded us, "Wherever you are." It was definitely homily-lite. No rocket science-style liturgy here. (Or was it "littergy?")
It was all part of the Living Water program of the youth hostel where I was staying. I opted for a free breakfast at the church, located on the suburban periphery of Amsterdam.
It was an old school or community center that looked as though it was used on the weekends by church groups. Our group of about 8 scruffy Christian (or poser Christians, like me) international student/travelers left from the hostel, boarded the suburban bound train and arrived a few minutes later. I was pretty groggy from the muffins and brownies from the night before. In fact, I was so groggy that I didn't realize that I had to pay for the train until the way back!
Oops. Well, I'm sure God wouldn't have minded.
In fact, I was still sort of tripping. The lingering chemicals in my head enhanced everything at the service. It was like having a religious experience, only without the requisite convictions. The remaining pharmacology cast a mild patina of magic on the proceedings. The voodoo of the magical plants blended well with the old religion.
I was a stealthy spy, in their club of saints and holy holies. What sort of secrets would I gather? Well, apparently, the Magdalena dance originated with some woman who was sticking to Jesus like plastic wrap when she found him outside his empty tomb. "Don't cling to me, woman," Jesus yelled at her.
I guess this story teaches us that God doesn't like clinginess or dancing women. The freebie booklet that the hostel folks slapped into my hand had a great quote on the back cover. It pretty much equated salvation with a keychain, at least in my mind… "The primary purpose of this book is to persuade those who have not yet believed to receive the FREE GIFT of eternal life…" Now, is it just me, or does FREE GIFT sound too much like a chintzy promotional item like a Frisbee or a keychain? Oh well. No harm done. Except to my eternal soul and eternal sense of taste….
That's pretty much all the religion I got. Oh well, back to the business of travel.
The Van Gogh museum taught me a very important aspect of Dutch culture: how to correctly pronounce the artist's name. (Seems that we English-speakers took a cue from the French with this one. We parroted the French "Go" sound, although it's actually a very Dutch "Gockh," with a throaty aspiration at the end. So now you know.)
I learned about the artist's difficult life, pock-marked with bouts of depression and door-pounding creditors, savagely critical reviewers and the various before-his-time headaches that predictably plague the paradigm-busters like Vincent. The audio tour had music and sound effects so that I could hear the waves crash up against the shore of his beach scenes. Woodland warblers called out from the margins of the forest scenes. I could practically hear the floorboards creak in his brilliantly colored apartment.
There was a fantastic exhibition in the new wing of the museum: the Musee Imaginaire -- it was works by the artist mounted alongside creations of artists he admired.
This was a great chance for me to track Van Gogh's evolution and his important influences. Where did he get those lemon peel skies? What voices in his head convinced him to paint a forest in cobalt and burgundy? Why would he picture a starry night through glaucoma-glazed eyes?
These questions were important to me. I happily inched closer to the answers.
I found out that lemon peel skies speak of the sourness of sickness. The paintings taught me that cobalt forests thrive in the old-growth section of the brain where we imagine the enchanted, the deep, the dark, and the forbidden.
Finally, I learned that a night sky can be sowed by a visionary gardener; he can sow his seeds like a field of dandelions that glow with hope.
Thank Holland, for these insights! I am a better traveller for having them. You were good to me. Each time I warm up in my yachting coat, given to me by that smiling young politician of Rotterdam, I will think of you.
