I came to Amsterdam as a callow youth of 17 to join an international work camp - it was the Summer of 82 because I remember watching the World Cup Final when the Italians beat the Germans in a bar with two Germans, one of whom I really like and the other one I didn't like, not solely because he had started snogging the first one the previous day. And an Italian who I really liked, because he was a crazy Sampdoria fan who wrote messages in my notebook from Gramsci like "From the highest montains take up your tomahawk and fight" - I wonder if tomahawk was the right word there? And he wrote that in my eyes I had the fire of a rebel. This is heady stuff for a 17 yr old and we were both ecstatic at the end of the game and this post is not about football so moving on...
We were staying near Weesperplein metro station in a huge dance studio which I seem to remember being the home of the Dutch National ballet. It was just a huge, long room with a mirror and rail all the way down one wall and a record player at one end. I'm afraid the citizens of all nationalities must have wearied of me playing The Cure (17 seconds, A Forest, Where did it all go wrong Mr Smith?) and Lou Reed incessantly. It was a time of heat and colour and loud markets and snatched kisses and novelty and excitement and risk and one fantastic party up a metal staircase...
One morning I bunked off from digging out a cellar to take the tour of the Heineken brewery.
Yesterday I found myself unexpectedly cycling past it.
I found myself reflecting on where live takes you. Seventeen is a scary but hugely exciting age, the world a buzz and your place in it uncertain and undetermined - an incohate thrill/scare ride.
Then it hardens slowly.
I've missed that uncertainty. I want to discover stuff again- roll-ups, conversation, Schopanhauer (who?)
But I want to hold on to the best of the certainties.

I just had 20 minutes to myself!
Somebody call the police!!!!!!!!!

We lost our souls in the sea of all tranquility...