Why is it wrong to lie

Realistically it is only bad for others. It is very difficult to function in the world without believing others and we expect the truth. Be it a doctor, a teacher or even a politician, the latter of which is a liar by definition, but we expect the truth. Of course there is NO truth and what we consider to be true is simply just something that a group of individuals have agreed to accept. Having said that it is easy to see how a lie can become truth.  Morality and by extension religion have grown to induce a fear of a higher power in the attempt to prevent or at least minimize people’s natural inclination to dress up their narratives. Thus, when we construct our own plan of action, whatever it may be, we rely on the information given to us by whomever and lies in the stories may produce an unpleasant consequence and we become angry if and when we find out there were lies involved.

Why does it matter?

It doesnt. We have our own brains and our own cognitive abilities. Any project should rely on those abilities and those whom one trusts, at least on some level. It is very difficult to fully trust and for good reason. Everybody lies.

Every organ has to have blood supply to it, and from it. That is the nature of organic life, supply and drainage and thus, often ignored venous drainage of the brain was found to be affected in not one, but hundreds of people who were labeled NEUROLOGICALLY DAMNED, there is NO CURE, we were told, these are only drugs available and their goal is to slow down illness. YOU WILL GET WORSE.

But what cause it? why? YOUR BODY ATTACKS ITSELF, ITS AUTOIMMUNE , well that is just great.  What is the point of seeing a neurologist then, just to measure how fast one is declining. DO MRI OFTEN, why, to see how disease is progressing. Who cares? Nothing can be done, not really.

Hence, suicide rate jumps up very high at the sheer incompetence and simple classification of a person just being FUCKED, a young person often. They tell you how smart you are just by asking questions and try to explain that the drugs will prevent the sight of vegetables in their wheelchairs, but nothing really prevents it. Some end up that way, some arrive much earlier and some don’t at all. Its all a game of chance. How can this happen in 21st century, how can they know next to nothing, how can a “common” condition for 20somethings produce an equivalent of tossing hands up. YOU WILL BE PARALYZED UNLESS YOU GO ON THESE DRUGS was something that I heard myself. To clarify, the drugs consisted of 2″ needle to be injected either daily, or every other day. The side effects are horrendous and the effectiveness is highly questionable, but of course the neurologist’s office is decorated with all sorts of office supplies displaying the name of the drug so….

A vascular surgeon in Italy in an attempt to help his wife, who like many of us was NEUROLOGICALLY DAMNED with a 10 year dose of Multiple Sclerosis, found problems in the drainage veins from brain. Turns out, there have been theories for hundreds of years yet it appeared that a mystery diagnosis and the commitment to drugs was more important, thus nobody even looked. The surgeon organized a study, every patient with MS had a malformation with their veins that in no way appeared to have a cause. DAMNED at birth, a congenital defect but wait. He performed angioplasty, a common procedure to open blood vessels most often used on heart patients, people began to improve. Improvement thus far had been sparse and nearly absent with this diagnosis but this man had flipped the paradigm completely. Of course, nobody could believe it but patients with nothing to lose lined up to get this minimally invasive procedure and so the great quest for the procedure dubbed Liberation. Indeed. everyone had it, indeed in most it could be fixed relatively easy and indeed it stopped the disease and people improved. Many got in line to disprove the causal theory but the man’s response was “check the neck,” he provided methods to look for it, he provided data on how to approach it best, of course he was and is open to new ideas but the fact that its there, its always been there is undeniable and so, the pursuit of a pharmacological salvation has once again been proven disastrous. Stripping patients of hope, dignity and eventually their concept of self has produced NO BENEFIT for patients but a financial windfall for doctors, pharmaceuticals and researchers, who spent their time investigating a symptom.

Investigative Medicine

Conception of Hero of Modernity

Walter Benjamin was a German literary critic as well as a philosopher, although he himself never referred to himself as a philosopher.  His thought intertwined elements of Jewish mysticism with Marxist theories, specifically historical materialism. Born in Berlin in 1892, Benjamin left in the 1930s and lived in various European cities, most notably in Paris, where he spent an extended amount of time.  Upon the surrender of France to the Nazi invasion, Benjamin fled to the French/Spanish border, in an attempt to get to the United States where Theodore Adorno and other Frankfurt School exiles had been living at the time. He knew them well, especially Adorno and they would most certainly help him in United States. His escape was tragically collapsed at the border and he was detained. Fearing the experience of being handed over to the Nazis, Benjamin killed himself by the ingestion of cyanide.  Of course it was Benjamin himself who said that suicide is the “heroic passion,” the final and ultimate act of freedom that one may take.  Indeed it seems that the structures and pressures of the Modern world, in his case, the modern world in the midst of a war, was simply to much to bear and he needed to find refuge.  Of course Benjamin is not only known for the circumstances of his death, “the quiet unpathetic heroism,” as Gerhard Fischer noted, he is known for his work. In his discussion of modernity, Benjamin delivers a message of what a hero of modernity is, defining the hero as someone who is able to stand as an autonomous individual, one who will defend their autonomy against the pressures and standards of institutions of society.

Modernity

Modernity of course does not mean something that is simply contemporary or modern. It refers to an epoch in the history and the development of man. Modernity was thus a time of drastic restructuring of life, a change in the spirit of the world. It was in fact Hegel who first gave a concrete description of modernity, as the “legal regime”  This new legal regime, or the system which swallows everything only to rationalize and standardize it throwing it back into the face of every individual living within a certain nation-state (also a concept of modernity). Everyone becomes subjugated by this system, with its laws, customs, norms and standards.  Thus, for Hegel,, a hero in modernity becomes an impossible dream, since heroism requires autonomy, and autonomy in modernity is impossible..  In order to achieve the autonomous individuality one cannot be subjugated in such a way, and thus the hero can only exist in the realm of art.  A character in artistic expression is the only home for the hero in the epoch of modernity.

Max Weber continued on Hegel’s concept with his own conception of the rational legal system.  This system, Weber claimed, is an “iron cage,” imprisoning the individual and demanding conformity, an objective society where everything is defined and organized.  Any attempt at fighting against the established system, will of course result in being labeled  a criminal, a  madman , or a deviant, and thus be dealt with in the appropriate matter according to the regulations of the system in place.  Thus the pressures of modernity, the cage, become overwhelming weight upon the individual.

Benjamin on Modernity

Benjamin as a Marxist thinker takes Hegel’s theory and turns it over, arguing that the individual, in order to be a hero, must act AS IF he were in art.  However, this action, this stand for autonomy, should take place in reality. The words of Friedrich Nietzsche come to mind, that one should live life as a work of art, as though one is destined to repeat and relive their life an infinite amount of times.  Benjamin argues from a somewhat different perspective, claiming that the acting is the essential part. It is this agency to act, to be an actor, as though you are in art; this theatrical mode of existence defines heroism.  It is thus, a stand against society’s requirements and the declaration of personal sovereignty and will.

Benjamin’s theory of the hero as an actor was derived from the view of Karl Marx, who argued that heroism was “necessary in order to get through to a structurally non-heroic middle-class society,”

yet that heroism was itself theatrical, the hero acting as a hero. Benjamin’s conception rested on this notion, however it also rested on the notion of Baudelaire, who although never actually mentioning a hero, defined the artist as the hero.  Benjamin even begins his chapter on modernity with a statement that “Baudelaire patterned his image of the artist after an image of the hero.”

It seems that we are reminded again of Hegel, who saw the hero as the character in art.  Baudelaire saw the hero as the artist himself, who collects refuse of the city and fashions it into art, in fact Benjamin claims that the rag picker and the poet are alike in their “solitary business” of collecting refuse.  Benjamin saw the actor as the hero, the “portrayer of heroes.”  Benjamin explains that Baudelaire was known to have varied look about him, he could “change his facial expression like a fugitive from a chain gang.”

It is because Baudelaire had no convictions, Benjamin tells us, that he was able to change his identity so easily. For Benjamin, these identities were all roles played by Baudelaire, he was an actor, and this made him a hero of modernity. Benjamin also brings up the image of the hero as the image of the apache. “The apache abjures virtue and laws; he terminates the contrat social forever.”

He terminates the social contract, and abjures virtue, he defends his autonomy and stands against the requirements society has placed on him.

At the highest point of autonomy and individuality in modernity, the last act of freedom and individuality that one can take is suicide.  Benjamin argues that the pressures of modernity represent a great weight on the individual, suffocating the individual. This system, which Hegel called the legal regime, causes complete subjugation and the withering away of any sense of autonomy resulting in desire to perform the last act of freedom.  Which Benjamin addresses::

It is understandable if a person becomes exhausted and takes refuge in death. Modernity must stand under the sign of suicide, an act which seals a heroic will that makes no concessions to a mentality inimical toward this will.  Such a suicide is not resignation but heroic passion.

Hence, Benjamin makes clear that such a life, under such pressures and requirements causes exhaustion and despair that one must find refuge in death. Indeed, this line of thought is not the sigh of the depressed or pathetic unwillingness to deal with life.  It is a revelation of a man who sees the epoch of modernity as so subjugating and suffocating that he realizes that the ultimate act of freedom, of autonomy, is to take one’s own life.  This freedom and this power to act in such a way, a way that goes against established order and ‘values’ of the institutions of society, is the heroic will, the heroic passion. It is not surprising that considering the rapid changes brought on by industrialization and the new labor structures, suicide began to seem more like an option in the time of encroaching society. In the Communist Manifesto, Marx describes the new structure of labor brilliantly as “masses of laborers, crowded into the factory, [and] organized like soldiers.”  Such an alienated being may surely find suicide a comforting option. Cities grew rapidly with the byproduct of the growth being anonymity, confusion, overpopulation. Benjamin quotes Leon Dauder as commenting while observing major cities of Paris, Marseilles, and Lyons, that the most apparent thing about these cities is “the threat.”  The threat lies in the “agglomerations of human beings,” who are threatening and thus Dauder wonders why the cities still remain, since the need for suicide is so inherent in conditions such as this.

Hence, Walter Benjamin gave a sobering account of the hero of modernity. Of course it is a different type of hero, it is a hero that is not above the law, it is a hero who is against the requirements of society when it comes to stripping the individual of his individuality and autonomy. The hero is a hero because he stands against the pressures of modernity. He can change his identity, wear masks like Baudelaire, have no convictions or fixed persona.  He is free to be who he chooses.  The battle for identity that people go through, the identity crisis is not a crisis at all. Having a fixed identity is just subjugating oneself to the established order.  Benjamin insists that modern heroism is standing your ground, against the encroaching system, defending your autonomy.  The suicide as heroic passion is also quite a powerful statement, because indeed, when one is so exhausted by the constant pressure the only act of freedom is taking one’s own life and that is what Walter Benjamin did himself in a hotel room on the border of Spain. The overwhelming weight of the modern world, especially one on the verge of complete collapse, as was the case with Second World War, it is indeed surprising how the major cities still exist today.

—

2005 Amsterdam | Art and Modernity

The day was gray but it was no longer raining, the droplets of water held on to the partitions, their final stand that would inevitably give in and dry. The talking noise saturating the air would quiet down when the bell of the passing tram rang. As directed by social protocol, everyone turned to look at the sight of the blue and white Siemens tram rolling past the cafe. The reflection in the tram windows, covering most of the train, was a beautiful mix of white clouds dancing on the grey stage while the tops of the picturesque architecture watched from below, as if audience observing a ballet. I felt lost within and I never wanted to leave, I had found the answer I was searching for. I had found reality that I could never match in my kingdom.

I scribbled in my journal about the amazing experience I was engaged in while doing something that was so simple and ordinary. No doubt taken for granted by many for whom this would be unremarkable, to me it was enlightenment, to me it was life. I finished my coffee and got up. Wrapping my bag across my chest and placing a few coins on the table, I walked out into the street. I looked around, reached into a small pocket on the outside of my bag and pulled out a joint that I immediately placed between my lips. I dug into my jeans and took out a lighter which I brought up to my face when the ringing of a bicycle bell alerted me to get out of the way. I stepped back off the bicycle path I was standing on and watched a woman breeze by me on her yellow bike while mumbling something I did not make out. Still watching her from behind riding away, I lit the joint and crossed the street.

I pulled out my iPod and pushed the white ear bud headphones into each ear as I walked through the open area and across another street. I ashed the joint and placed it back in my mouth continuing on my journey into the ancient university district and my scheduled class on Philosophy of Psychoanalysis. Trance beating in my brain put me in a calm and introspective state as I weaved in and out of passages through the crowded shopping area. I kept walking, smocking and contemplating my argument for the paper I had to produce as the final and pretty much only grade for this course.

There were people everywhere yet they were nowhere at the same time. The beauty of city landscape is that people become part of the fabric of the city and it is in such an environment that it becomes very easy to be invisible while at the same time feeling as one among a greater being than one’s own, a life of the city, a life of the crowd. I felt alive, and while walking through the covered street lined with book sellers, I wondered how many generations of students have walked along this very path. Nazis were here and walked the same streets, as were the wheelbarrows with the unfortunate souls conquered by the plague but now it was me, my life would leave traces in this ancient city.

I looked down in sadness and shook my head, my interlocutor stroked his long white beard and produced some sort of a grown while looking at me. He then, very calmly, reached out and carefully lifted the small, yet ornate, pot of tea. He filled two cups and handed one to me.

“Thank you,” I told him as I began to sip.
“Tell me what traces you think you left.”
“Well, the city holds many stories and if you listen, you can hear them.”
“But how do you envision your story?”
“My story is but a story among millions of stories, I am not special, just unfortunate.”
“But maybe you are fortunate.”
Taking another sip I looked at him, “indeed, maybe I am, but nobody should live through all this.”
“Life is just that, just being alive. You were alive before, you are alive now.”
“The only thing keeping me alive now is love, I lost everything else, piece by piece. I was alive, I did what I wanted, but really I was not alive like I was in the city. I was thirsty and as soon as I began to see that there was more l realized that I had been asleep. Now it seems that that life was the dream.”
“hmm,” he grunted while stroking his beard. “Why do you think you felt this way?”
I thought for a moment, sipped my tea and spoke, “life was insufficient and I knew it, but I had to live, I had to interact with others, I had to do what I could.”
“But you never felt normal?”
“No, I was angry at myself, I though I was doing something wrong and maybe I was but I now see that there was more to my frustration.”
He poured more tea for himself and asked if I wanted more. I stretched out my cup that he proceeded to happily fill.
The little man with bushy white eyebrows and a long straight beard was sitting in a meditative pose on a large pillow. We sipped our tea in silence now and I just kept thinking. He finally looked up at me, “Have you reflected on what you have learned?” I put down my cup at the little table in front of me and sighed, “Over and over, I don’t know. I have gained more respect for life and it’s random path, but the unfairness of it all is just impossible to make peace with.” He sat there just nodding for what seemed like eternity, looking at his cup. He finally looked up at me, the cup vanished out of his hand and he got up. “Life is unfair, but you should not look at it in those terms. What can you get out of it is the goal, there is nothing else, you have to try to learn, to experience, to flourish.”

PML or Progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy is a rare disorder that is caused by an infection of the brain and can cause severe disability and/or death. Despite this, patients often chose to take the risk as the benefits outweighed the potential of the risk.

In either case, after the visit to the MSS, I was given several options of which Tysabri appeared to be the best but I was unsure and the doctor told me to go home and think of what I wanted to do.

He drew a village on the paper I was sitting on. “This is the MS village,” he said. “Here we have the CRAB drugs, here we have Tysabri and here we have trials.” He looked at me then down again. “You need to enter the village.” I was not on any MS medications due to my own reluctance given everything I had read, but Tysabri sounded good to me

By the end of November and through December I began to feel improvement. I knew that having done nothing else it was the stem cell transplant I had gone through in August. They said that it would take three months, give or take, for me it was more like four to five, but I was improving. So I called the doctor, with whom I had already filled out the forms for Tysabri and who was just waiting for my decision to do it. I asked him some additional questions I had and given my improvement told him that I would wait and see where the improvement takes me. He agreed.

In the same month I began to see some discussions amongs patients of a new surgical treatment for MS. Having already gone through really unorthodox options for treatment I did not know what to make of it and then came the Facebook page on CCSVI, founded by the wife of the first patient in US. I began to submerge myself in all the amazing research this woman provided and continues to provide to this day.

Apparently a team of Italian doctors, headed by a Vascular Surgeon, Paolo Zamboni, had cracked the riddle. Zamboni’s wife had severe MS that rendered her challenged in walking, eye sight, and a host of other problems. Zamboni himself was not well, and the never identified illness had limited his abiliy to move his hands but that did not stop his work and in 2006 he scanned his wife and then other MS patients. Bingo, all had blocked, narrowed or otherwise constricted veins draining the blood from head.

MS was previously thought to be autoimmune, an idiotic theory based on replication of immune reaction in animals. Highly questionable, but lacking other ideas, for whatever reason, medical community accepted it. This changed everything and a war was about to ensue

The most amazing aspect of this discovery was the fact that it is fixable. Angioplasty, a common procedure in cardiology is when a catheter is guided into the blood vessel that is compromised and a balloon is inflated to open that blood vesse. Catching it at its real birth on the internet I became obsessed and read everything that the wonderful woman had and continues to post on the single largest Facebook CCSVI community. My own ideas and thoughts on the matter suddenly made sense when combined with the discovery of the Italian group with Paolo Zamboni at its head. Not wanting to waste more time that I could not afford with the rapid progression, I began to pursue this.

Don’t breathe, don’t move

I had brought a stack of research to my Primary Care Physician and asked for a doppler ultrasounds based on the Zamboni criteria. He prescribed it and I went to a hospital to have that done. There were all kinds of strange sounds coming from the ultrasound but I did not see what I wanted to nor did the technician reveal any information. I was worried and on my next visit to my PCP he informed me that the resident radiologist at the hospital had provided a report that my carotid artery, among other misguided results was normal.

I asked for an MRV and brought the protocol with me this time. I handed the protocol to the technician and proceeded to have the all day long scans. Turns out that my PCP ordered MRIs as well as MRV, either way it took hours.

This time, I went to the hospital myself and retrieved the CD. Looking through it myself I knew exactly what to look for. Stenosis, of the right and left jugulars was quite evident to me and I was excited to go back to my PCP.

He called me few days later and told me that results came back normal. I objected that the results are far from normal and I would be happy to show him. He was interested how I, a regular citizen, knew what stenosis looked like. I told him I would show him.

I came to his office with my laptop and showed him the otherwise misdiagnosed MRV images. Wow, he said and told me that he would speak to the IR he recommended. This IR could have done the exams her self but she did not want to have anything to do with me. Anyway, I asked him for another IR to see and he gave me a name.

This IR saw me and questioned me on my MS, already eager to hand this off to an MSS. Hearing who I saw previously, he became excited that the doctor was one of the best MSS. No, I said, look at the images. He left the room and came back 10 minutes later and told me that the jugulars are fine. Unbelievable. He said that the right one is blocked but left one has flow, 1 is enough. Ok.

My mothers doctor recommended a Vascular Surgeon and my mother went to him with printed images of my MRV. Specific images that were most striking were chosen by me for this adventure and indeed the surgeon also said that it does not look normal but could be breathing but in either case a venogram, the gold standard, would be much more reliable. He sent the case over to his IR since for him this was to minor of a procedure.

The morning consult with IR consisted of him, stating that he heard of the Italian theory however he could not guarantee results. “We will go slow, lets look first,” were his other comments. Surely fearful that this is not expected to produce anything serious.

I was prepped and wheeled over to the surgical room where I was further prepped. The doctor came soon and began. The needle did not hurt at all and the only sensation of pain was when the catheter reached my head. The crunch accompanying the minimal pain was evident as problematic. “Stenosis,” he finally spoke out, “mark the time and get a balloon.” A wonderful sound for someone reading the materials on a daily basis.

“Don’t breathe, don’t move,” he said and the pain in my head increased, as my stenosis was high and in my head. “That’s better flow,” he said. I smiled while laying with the radioactive xray over me. He moved the catheter to my left and spoke out for another balloon, bilateral problems. He struggled with the left and even noted how beautiful the right one dilated.

As seen on the report later, not only was the stenosis severe on both sides, but he even had difficulty getting the catheter through to be able to balloon.

A few more of “don’t breathe, don’t move,” and it was all over. My and my mother’s demand to check the azygos vein was probablu annoying but he took a picture of it and said its fine.

Neither the doctor nor the staff had ever seen this and thus were fascinated that the correlation was consistent with Zamboni elegant theory.

Turns out that one of the assistants trained with Dr. Dake in Virginia and knew more about this by studying Dake, still I was the first for him

Re-Stenosis

i had it in April and after about a week of significant improvement i began to get severely worse, the doctor who did it did not know what he walked into and would not respond to me anymore.

i found another doc who was very interested and i was one of his first. I was already severely worse than i was before the procedure. Ultrasound showed reflux and narrowing, he performed the procedure in June and placed a stent in the vein that he tried to balloon but it kept closing.

It was quite evident to me that the renarrowing was the cause of the relapse. After procedure, relapse stopped, nystagmus in my eyes was gone while i was in recovery at the hospital and more serious improvements followed.

I felt much more relaxed during this procedure as the doctor knew the research and wanted to find and fix the issue. A very respected Vascular Surgeon who was filled with care and compassion for such an awful condition actually wanted to do what he knew well to ease the suffering. I laid there naked with a crowd of people standing around me. I was freezing and having some sort of reaction to whatever was in my IV. I felt hands on my forehead and cheeks and the doctor peeking over to see my now red face. Benadryl was added to my drip and probably something else.

I woke up on the way to recovery, my head and body wrapped in blankets and my consciousness fading in and out. My neck felt sore which was later explained as a stent. I felt grateful and happy as I knew the risk of restenosis and I just wanted stents to remove this concern and allow me to focus on recovery.

The left jugular was open, the right one closed, less severely but closed nonetheless. I had a stent that I dreamed off.

I just had a follow up and there is no reflux and the staff was amazed that i walked in, instead of the wheelchair i came in first time.

Again, my first imperative is patient’s choice but this is real and for whatever reason the establishment is slow to accept thus doing anything about it is up to the patient. There are vascular surgeons who are very willing to do it despite the politics.

The doctor who did it was shut down by corporate owners of hospital, but he is in constant negotiations and has a list of people waiting.

I was surrounded by water, the stench of which was only worsened by the ghastly sight of bodies and rats floating around me. All I could see in either direction was water, and death. Helicopters flew over my head constantly yet to them I was no different than the countless dead bodies around me. I tried to scream but I had lost my voice and could only produce a muted sigh rather than a scream. I struggled to keep afloat, moving my arms and legs in a circular motion as I learned as a kid in a swimming pool. My arms were already tired and I did not have the endurance to wave while using the other arm to stay afloat so all I could do was look up and splash water around with my head as I felt gravity slowly pulling me under. With the exhaustion slowly overwhelming me, I stopped flapping my head and just kept it looking up. The brightness of the day hurt my eyes, but the brightness came not from the sun but a white brightness, the kind that makes you squint your eyes during light rain. I looked up onto the circling helicopters and just hoped they would see me when I suddenly started hearing the rhythmic tuk-tuk, tuk-tuk. I looked around at first and then I stopped feeling water around me. I had apparently awaked although continuing to keep my eyes closed. The noise of tuk-tuk, tuk-tuk persisted and while refusing to open my eyes, as I often do upon awakening, I wondered what that sounded like.

After spending some time thinking about it, I realized that it was in fact a train. I was somewhat ashamed of myself for not guessing this seemingly obvious truth sooner, but my thought quickly changed to a more crucial issue; why am I on a train? I did not remember getting on a train or even planning to go anywhere. As I continued lying on the soft cloth bench, which I was now rubbing with my hands, I figured that perhaps I was still dreaming and the scene had just changed. I attempted to relax and maybe fall back into deeper sleep, but the sound of the wheels on the rails just got louder and louder in my head. Could it be that I am hallucinating? Did I smoke, drink or take anything the night before? I didn’t think I had, however this whole thing could just be a manifestation of my childhood love for trains. How long was I asleep, I wondered? The questions kept piling on and I understood then that I was most probably completely awake at this point.

I opened my eyes and looked around the two bench cabin with a little table under the window between the two benches. There were two shelves above each of the soft cloth benches with no luggage on either one; however I did see my jacket on the opposite bench. Lying there, confused, but calm, I rubbed my eyes and got up. I stretched and took a few steps to the window to only find the scenery white, without a single sign of civilization, or at least civilization as I have come to know it. Just forests covered in snow, endless forests as thought a painting painted by the late night TV show on technique training. The artist’s name escaped me, but I remembered him always saying that “this is your world”. I thought about that and looked out, “some sticks and twigs here,” he would say. For some strange reason I could not remember how I got on this train or where I was going. 
I straightened out my shirt and turned my jeans, which were kind of dirty, and made my way out of the cabin into a narrow hallway with polished wooden panels on the sides and reddish carpeting on the floor. I had to get to the toilet and at least throw some water on my face. I walked to the end of the wagon and into the small toilet where I stared at myself in the mirror and turned on the tap putting my fingers under the stream to taste the water. I watched myself in the mirror for some time repeating all the questions I had in my head while staring at my own blank reflection. The water was cold and I quickly cupped some with two hands and buried my face in the small reservoir I was now holding. I felt substantially refreshed and dried my hands with the paper towel that came out of an automated dispenser. I took another look in the mirror and turned around, opening the little door which led me back to the narrow hallway once again. There was nobody in the hallway and no chatter or other types of usual noises of a train journey. I found this odd since it was daytime, and continued walking through the hallway. I wanted to find someone and ask them my laundry list of questions or at least where the train was going. I knocked on a door yet no one answered. I knocked on a few more, yet no one answered still. A small panic mixed with already existing confusion began to boil inside of me, as the thought of being alone on this train immediately clouded my mind. I started banging on the doors violently with my fists accompanied by screaming, although knowing that neither the strength nor the loudness would change anything. Door after door I banged and yelled but the result was the same. At this point I started opening the doors; violently sliding the thin hollow doors, only to find the cabins suspiciously missing occupants or even any luggage or other items confirming existence of an occupant. I began to walk faster just banging on the doors with my fist as I passed. Walking from wagon to wagon at a quicker and quicker pace, I finally reached the restaurant.

Perplexed and angry, I looked around, chose a table and sat down by the window and attempted to try to arrange my thoughts and figure this situation out. I had a lot of faith in rationalism and now needed it desperately. I dug through my pockets to find them completely empty which I thought was strange, since I always had my keys. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and put them on the table, looking to my left and out the window onto the whiteness and the forests. I kept hearing the pounding of my heart in my ears, which I once learned was a vein near the ear that is sometimes audible. I concluded that I was alive at least, but what the hell was going on was a question that I could not understand. I did not know what to do or think at this point and looking out the window, I saw my own blank expression staring back at me. “What the fuck?” I said to my own reflection and hid my face in my hands. 
A few minutes later a bald man in a red vest walked up to me and asked, “What would you like?” It was such a relief to see another human being that I nearly got up and hugged him. I ordered a coffee and asked the man to join me. Since there was no one else in the restaurant he agreed and brought himself a cup of coffee as well as one for me and sat opposite me in the booth. After an uncomfortable glance at each other, I asked him where the train was headed, to which he smiled and asked where I thought it was headed. I shook my head and looking down into my coffee; I told him, “I don’t know.” Smiling, he told me, in a serious tone, “It is not important where it is going, rather from where it is coming.” What a strange answer I thought, while still looking down but quickly followed up with another question. 
“Where are we coming from?” I asked and looked up at him, raising my eyes first, followed by my head.

“You do not remember anything?” he asked me, with a somewhat concerned look on his face, his sharp eyes fixated on me. I thought about my answer and told him, “I remember I just woke up on this train, walked out of my cabin and walked down the hallway. I knocked on many doors and–nobody answered. I wanted to know where we are going, but there was no one to ask. I was beginning to be scared that I am alone on this train and then you came and asked me what I wanted to order. I don’t know how I got on this train, and I don’t know why. Last thing I remember is being in Amsterdam, looking out of my window onto the boats passing in the canal.” He looked puzzled and said in a calm yet assertive voice, “This train left weeks ago. This was the last train out,” he looked down took a breath and shook his head, “There is nothing left” he said. He kept his head low as though in mourning after that.
Having heard this, I began to doubt my sanity. What could be happening, how could I not remember multiple weeks of my life, what did it mean that there is nothing left, why is this the last train, I had more questions now than ever. Yet, instead of asking him all these questions, I asked him “what year is this?” Not quite sure why, but this seemed like the right question given the complexity of the issue and the nature of the general reference point. He looked out the window then back at me, he took a breath and said “Nobody knows what year it is,” he looked out the window again then turned and started to get up. I reached over the table and grabbed his arm stopping him and asked, “What do you mean nobody knows, what happened, where are other passengers?” He looked straight at me and said “You are the only passenger,” he got up and walked away after that.

I leaned back in my seat and felt my body hanging on my bones as though on a hanger. I sat there in the booth of this empty restaurant and tried to make sense out of the strange conversation, thinking that maybe I should have stopped him again and got some more answers out of him, but his last words hitme so hard I could barely move. How could I be alone if he is here I quickly thought, but looking around I could not even see him anywhere anymore. I got up and walked around the restaurant, going into the kitchen, a forbidden area for passengers, but the man was gone. I walked back to my cabin, where I picked up my jacket and started digging in its pockets for something that might help me. I found a brown, leather bound journal in one of the jacket pockets. Unfortunately however, the journal seemed to be damaged by water and on many pages the ink had run and made the entries illegible. The cover had ornate carvings in the leather, which I knew I could not have done, lacking skill for such a work, but I couldn’t quite remember who did it. After gently stroking the carvings with my eyes closed, I began flipping through the pages trying to read the entries I could still make out, hoping for some insight as to how I got here. I found many entries about Kate and I read them over and over getting stuck at a particular entry that jumped out and grabbed my emotions.

April 14, 2006
Lying in bed with her, feeling so close to her, her skin pressed against mine, listening to the gentle sound of the canal hitting against the walls, a sound of a bike passing by, or an engine of a rare car. I held her so close, so tight that I could feel her heart beating against my chest. Her lips gently gliding on my neck.

We were together in Amsterdam, but I could not remember her other than what was written. “Every time I close my eyes, I see your face,” the chorus of a Lustral song goes, yet I could not remember her as much as I tried. I tried desperately to visualize her face in front of me and even reached my hand out with my eyes still closed as though to touch her face, but I just grasped air, in my desperate attempts. What happened, what happened to my memory? I kept flipping the pages of this journal, reading through the various entries, or pieces of entries. I could always see that many of these entries were about Kate but the text had bled so bad that I could not read much of it. The other entries were typical entries about my life and experience living in this strange and ancient city. I flipped more and discovered that towards the later entries there was an increasing worry in my tone, as though expecting something to happen. One of the entries read:

April 25, 2006
There have lately been a lot of sirens filling the night air. Although this is not strange for a large metropolis, it is very odd for this city where I had previously mostly seen police on bikes just riding around. More and more people were protesting in the Dam and people handing out flyers about the…[unreaable]…

The water damage both intrigued and frustrated me, since reading and understanding the situation was extremely difficult. Why was there water damage anyway? I guessed that I got caught in the rain, since my shirt and jeans were stained as well. I sighed and kept reading bits and pieces that I could, which left me with the knowledge of something happening but a lack of understanding for what that something actually was. I tossed the journal on top of the jacket and decided to go and explore this train more.

My next trip down the hallway took me past the restaurant, thinking that maybe if I could get to the conductor or another member of staff I could get more answers. Being the only passenger as the man at the restaurant told me could not have meant the only person, or at least that was my logic. The hallway after hallway seemed to never end and there did not seem to be any other staff. I quickly began thinking of possible explanations; maybe this is a dream and I am in control of this train, maybe I could stop it if I think about it and focus. Maybe I could force myself to wake up in some way. Frustrated and still hoping to wake up I punched the window to maybe cause pain that would wake me up, but it just caused pain. I continued walking down the hallways, one after next, wagon after wagon. I tried to keep my head up, looking straight, and sometimes behind me. I began to recite in my head various texts I had read on lucid dreaming, but to my continued suffering I could not think of any strategy to wake up. I guess that most people want to continue their dreams instead of escaping it while I just wanted out, or at least some answers.

Suddenly as I was walking in my desperate state, a girl appeared in the hallway at a distance. I wiped my eyes to make sure it was not an illusion and ran to her to see who she was and talk to her. As I reached her I was out of breath and taking a moment to breathe bent over in front of her, I began to doubt her existence and maybe my own as well. Yet, she did not doubt mine and quickly asked, “Are you okay?” I nodded and got a question out in between breaths, “Are you a passenger on this train?” “Yes” she answered with a curious tone. “What’s your name?” I asked her. She smiled and said in a soft voice, “I’m Katya, what’s yours?” Did I know my name I wondered briefly but not wasting time I asked her, “Where is this train going?” She looked down and then up at me with her green eyes, while her face was still pointing down. “I guess the only thing I could say to make sense is that it does not matter where the train is going — what matters is what it left behind?” Oddly this was similar to what the waiter at the restaurant said earlier, yet he said where and she said what. Her name of course was the short of Ekaterina in Russian and although I was proud of myself for knowing this, the more important factor of the significance of her name did not register. “What’s happening?” I asked her. “I never felt so confused or helpless,” I mumbled in addition. But she did not answer; either because she wanted to avoid the question or she just didn’t hear me. Instead she asked if I wanted to take a walk with her, to which I nodded.

We walked down the hallway together, I told her my last memories and that I couldn’t remember anything else. To that she said, “Maybe it was for the best” referring of course to the fact that I did not remember. “Maybe it was a space in time you should not have remembered,” she added. “What,” I protested, “I want to remember it all. I do not want to repress anything.” I shook my head as we walked and then told her that the waiter in the restaurant wagon said I was the only one on the train. She laughed, smiled and said, “Well, obviously not.” We both laughed and continued walking down the corridor towards the restaurant wagon. “I tried to talk to the waiter more but I could not find him again,” I told her. “I looked all around too.” “Did he just disappear?” she curiously asked. “There are only limited places he could be on this train,” she added while appearing to be in thought. “Well, the man told me that I am alone on this train and that there is nothing left. But then I met you here, so I don’t know what the hell is going on,” I told her scratching my head. “Hmm, well maybe he was trying to scare you,” she answered. “Maybe, but why?” I protested, “He seemed serious to me.” “Let’s go and see this man.” She said in an almost challenging tone.

We got to the restaurant wagon and sat down at a table that she chose. I looked out the window at the still white scenery and asked her, “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we are the only people in this restaurant?” “It does, it’s kind of creepy, but there has to be a few more people on this train. This can’t be it.” She said in a way that was intended to convince me, but it didn’t. The absence of the waiter endorsed my theory. “We should go through the rest of the train and see if we can find anyone.” I suggested. “Let’s go” she happily complied. We got up and started walking down the corridor, banging on every door, opening the doors, checking the toilets. We could not find anybody and by the tenth door I could see that Katya was surprised and curious slowly realizing the fact that we, in fact, were alone here. “Yea, I don’t know,” I commented in my unconvincing and cynical tone.
She was not as desperate as I was looking for others however and that intrigued, and worried me. “Do you remember getting on this train?” I asked her to which she replied that she had woken up on the train. “I only remember the flood,” she added. “Flood? What flood?” I did not know what to make of this, could I remember a flood I wondered momentarily. “You don’t remember? Well, let’s go to the end of the train to make sure there is no one and I will tell you.” Although I did not feel like going through the train again, I did not want to let my sole companion out of my sight.

We walked to the end of the train and then to the other end and there was nobody in the train but us, the train was running itself it seemed since there was nobody driving it. Moreover there were no controls to stop or control the train, except a computer screen, which had words in various languages flashing on it. Japanese, Arabic, Thai, those were the languages I recognized but could not read. I started laughing hysterically and sat down on the floor of the corridor. “We are fucked, you realize?” I told her. “Shut up, this could be an automated evacuation train and we are the only survivors.” I laughed again, “Maybe.” This in fact was a possibility that did not occur to me, but since she mentioned a flood it made more sense in that context. “So what do we do now?” I asked her. She looked around standing in front of me and said “maybe we are looking at this the wrong way, maybe we should enjoy this time.” Confused by her answer I said, “Ok, but what do we do at this minute?” “Let’s just go sit and talk, we have nothing better to do or to find here,” she replied. “Ok,” I said and got up. How could I have seen the man in the restaurant, I could not understand. I was originally going to offer to go back to my cabin but quickly realized that it did not matter. So I opened the next door that was on our way and walked inside however she stopped me, “Wait let’s go back to the restaurant.” I nodded and followed her. We sat facing each other in the booth of the restaurant with the window to our side. “You mentioned a flood” I said “What happened?” I asked her, looking right at her. She was looking down, and uttered a question. “Do you remember the riots?” she asked. “I don’t but there is a sense of worry in my journal and mention of a tense feeling in the city.” She nodded, “Yea, it started months before. A ship carrying industrial waste came into the port of Amsterdam and the authorities did not allow it to unload. This was not the first time this happened, but the other times the ships ended up going to Africa and dumping their cargo there. Real nice huh?.” I shook my head, “Yea it is horrible, go on though.” This time the ship was leaking and the crew was terribly ill. By the time the bureaucracy worked its magic and ship was organized to go to Africa, the crew was already dead. Many people living close to the port were also sick.” She sighed. “The government was quick in its action to try to contain the ship and move it out of the port, but there were growing numbers of sick.” As she told the story glimpses came back to me. “I remembered the news buzzing about this issue. Yes, Yes I remember the news,” I commented. She nodded and continued, “Although an attempt to help the sick was made on a large international scale, the medical community could not figure out what was wrong with people and thus they just kept dying. Underground conspiracy began to spread that the ship in fact held a biological weapon that was not contained properly, and that was the source, not the waste. This theory spread faster than the illness and soon various organizations were protesting and rioting in Amsterdam and The Hague, demanding answers from the government.” “I bet the government didn’t say shit about it,” I commented and she nodded. “Yeah, the government had no answers, either because they themselves did not know, or because they were hiding something.” I kept nodding as she told me this story and bits of memories began to form a whole as though a puzzle coming together in my mind.

“Although this was by no means the plague, which the city lived through at high cost in life, it was a highly strange and frightening outbreak. Luckily for the rest of us, it was not a contagious disease, but it did not matter at that point anyway because it seemed to be in the air. Many nations had sent delegates to take samples and attempt to remedy the situation, but they just were paralyzed in their attempts. The riots got more and more violent and soon enough small terror attacks began to take place in random places. First there were garbage can explosions, then transportation sabotage, defacement of government buildings and demand for explanation from the authorities, who maintained that it was the leak of waste from the ship and they were doing what they could to clean up and get the ship out. By this point, the port was shutdown and secured by military, personnel once again fueling the conspiracy theory. The situation was deteriorating fast, but its climax was still to come and we all had a feeling that in the age of violence we had not seen anything yet. About three months into this saga it finally came, a massive terrorist attack on the seawall and dikes” “Holy Shit,” I said and began to think while looking down as she kept telling me the story. “Yea, well it was a well organized, large scale attack that flooded a lot of the country. The sirens in Amsterdam rang at six in the morning, by ten the canals were gone and water was up to the second floor, third floor if you are an American of course.” She smiled and continued. “I was in a boat with a friend at the time and we decided to try to get out by boat, which may have been a good idea if we were not in a city where a lot of people had boats and the same bright idea to get out in that way. It was still dark out and we had no power anymore, people everywhere were screaming, there were helicopters with search lights all over. Although most people were evacuated, a lot of people were dieing, most from electrocution, it appeared. I remember looking out the window and listening to the radio in shock. I don’t think anyone expected it this bad.” She sighed, and a tear ran down her cheek. She looked at me, awkwardly smiled and asked “You still don’t remember any of it at all?”

While she was telling me this story my memory of the flood started coming back to me. I remembered the sirens and I do remember rushing out of my apartment, the canal water was already overflowing and the sound of police and public in panic already filled the streets. “You seem deep in thought,” she said looking at me. “Sorry, yea I am just starting to form the memories,” I answered. “Well, good do it out loud,” she said while getting more excited. “Well, I remember rushing out of my apartment when the sirens rang. It was useless to ride a bike just because there was already water on the streets next to the canals and there were people filling the streets as though it was Queen’s Day, except this time it was panic, fear and tears rather than a happy festival. Nobody’s mobile worked anymore, and there was already no electricity.” Katya nodded as I told her this and urged me to continue. “I ran to Kate’s apartment, Kate was my girlfriend,” I clarified and continued “keeping close to the walls of the buildings in fear of stepping into the now invisible canal. I got to her building and pushed the intercom button to her apartment but it did not work anymore. I looked around and grabbed on to the drainage pipe and scaled the wall to the first floor window of her apartment and broke it with my elbow to get in. The apartment was empty, she was gone. I started thinking where she could be, and figured that she was probably at her closest friend’s boat.” Realizing what I just said, I looked up at Katya and stared into her eyes. She had a familiar expression in her eyes, and I slowly understood. I reached over to her and wiped another tear of her cheek. “Go on,” she said, “tell me more of what you remember.” I smiled at her and leaned on the table between us and ran my hands through my hair, holding the temples of my head as I looked down and continued. “At this point I knew that I would never find her like this, but I looked for her anyway. I went to where her friend’s boat was docked, but the boat was now gone. I went to her other friends’ flats with no result either, everyone was gone it appeared and I did not know where else to look. Soon enough the water was up to my knees and I knew I had to get out, but I wanted to find her and make sure she was ok. Wrestling with the feelings of rational judgment and my love I chose the more reasonable solution and started making my way to Centraal Station, since the word among the people was that the boats were being used to evacuate people still.

However, by the time I got to the station there were armed militia taking bribes for who can get on the boats. How fucking typical I thought, fucking people are animals at their core. The police tried to take control but were vastly outnumbered and there would be an occasional shootout between the police and the militia. The military pulled up in boats as I and many others were crowding the entrance into a flooded station. Their firepower was no match for the militia and military had control soon and made evacuations more systematic. They no longer bothered with arrests, those who resisted orders were taken out of the line and those who threatened the soldiers were shot. I don’t remember if I got on the boat or not, but how I ended up on this train is still a mystery since my last memory had the railways already flooded.”
“Do you remember how you got out?” I asked her.
“No, I woke up here.”
“You remind me of Kate you know,” I told her.
“Do I?” she smiled and cried at the same time. I moved to sit next to her and hugged her. “You helped me remember,” I told her as I held her. I could feel her nodding but she did not say anything, just quietly sobbed holding on to me.

Amsterdam 

I arrived in Europe in search of something else, something more or perhaps just to get away from everything. My girlfriend of three years had broken up with me because I “changed.” I suppose I had changed and handling the breakup better than I though I would, I decided to quit my well paying job in New York as well. Upon reflection now, I suppose I quit out of frustration with the fast paced lifestyle more than anything else. I left my now lonely apartment on the Upper West Side and bought a one-way ticket to Prague with little interest in coming back. I had no idea of what I was doing, or going to do, but I knew that something would work out. All I wanted to do now is exist in a place where I was able to emerge myself in art and culture as well as a more relaxed and laid back environment. I spent the first several weeks just wandering around ancient and historic cities of Europe making my way west by train. When I got to Berlin, I spent a lot of time in the old DDR side, just imagining what life would have been like here. Upon spending several days in Berlin, I decided that I should get to Amsterdam, since it had been so many years since I was there the first time. I had gone to Amsterdam before as a teen with my friends in search of all that Amsterdam is famous for. Our experience had left a warm feeling in me and thus I wanted to return and sample the city as a more mature man. Of course such a luxury of traveling so freely only became available thanks to the same job I now hated but it had served its purpose and I no longer fit into the lifestyle anyway. 
I went to the train station and bought a ticket for the next train to Amsterdam. The angry man at the ticket counter told me that the second class seats of the train were full and thus booked me for first class seat, with my knowledge and compliance, of course. Since the train was not leaving for another four hours and I had an opportunity to eat, spend some more time in the city as well as pick up my bag at the hotel.

By the time I got back to the station the train was already boarding and I got on close to the last call. Not being able to find my seat I quickly realized that I walked into the wrong wagon and had to walk through the train to the first class wagon, where I found my red cloth oversized seat and sat down. The train ride took seven hours during which time I read, wrote in my journal and looked out onto the fields we were passing. In retrospect a plane would have been cheaper and faster, but at the time I did not know about the economy flights within Europe that cost almost nothing. But it was not so bad, I always loved trains. There was something about a train that was more interesting, more special than an airplane. The food, which was surprisingly good, was served few hours after we had already been in journey and I fell asleep soon after eating. By the time I woke up we were getting very close to Amsterdam Central Station or rather Centraal Station.

I had made a reservation at a hotel not far from Leidseplein, a popular area for cafe?s, clubs and other forms of entertainment and now I had to figure out the best way to get there. I walked out of Centraal Station onto the crowded tram stop filled with tourists and locals in the central hub of transportation of this city. Upon exploring the tram routes I knew that I could take several trams to my destination and now it was just a question of which of the several lines going to my destination would come first. I stood by the map and observed the crowd.

A family of tourists with their large suitcases and even larger stomachs, that left no doubt of their origin, argued about the best route to their hotel. A man was looking through a stack of papers in his hand and scratching his chin. I watched and took in all of it as this was life. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled 10 euro note, which alleviated my worry for covering the ride. Although I did not have a ticket I remembered that I could buy one from the man sitting in the middle of the tram. Without my chance to observe this crowd, the tram pulled up and unloaded its cargo of rushing people. It then pulled up further and I got on.

I boarded the blue and white tram and told the man sitting in the middle, “Leidseplein,” which to him was sufficient to charge me the standard fee and issuing a ticket. I made my way through the belly of the tram and quickly found a seat by the exit doors. The ride was interesting as the tracks pierced through the city center and I got to see the sublime reality of life here. The city had not changed much since the last time I was here or perhaps in the last several hundred years. I sat back in my seat and looked around the tram at the collection of people. Anyone young had headphones in their ears no doubt connected to an mp3 player, some older people had the newspaper while most just remained unoccupied or talking to their companions. As we passed the stops people got on and off, but the patterns did not change. I though about the fact that everyone is this tram would die, yet the tram would remain, in service or not, but it would continue to exist. The human race has given birth to something immortal to a large extent, it may break or be replaced but it will continue to exist, whereas the people, myself included, will be gone.

I met Kate the first day I was in the city. I stopped by a coffeeshop to pick up some weed andwe crossed eyes briefly. Something forced me to go over to her and start a conversation. “Hi,” I said as I walked up to her. She was sitting on several giant pillows on the floor of this very cozy and laid back coffeeshop. Some of the coffeeshops in the city just had tables which made me nauseous, but this one had a more comfortable feel to it, but I digress. She looked up at me and smiled, and quickly said “hey, grab a seat,” moving over a bit to free up space on her giant pillor. I sat down next to her and she quickly stuck out her hand and said “I’m Kate” in fluent English. “I’m Michael, where are you from?” I answered. “U.S. originally, but I have been living here for several years now,” she said, smiled and passed me her spliff. “How do you like it?” I asked her. “I like it, it is very laid back here, extremely non-aggressive. Some things are retarded though.” We both laughed and I passed her spliff back to her after taking couple hits. “I guess there are retarded aspects in every place, no place is perfect,” I said and she nodded. “I hate tobacco,” I said after I began to cough. She smiled and said, “yes, I have been indoctrinated by the Dutch, this is how they smoke.” We spoke for a few hours and then decided to go to a cafe? to get some food. We walked outside and walked down the street laid out in bricks, as most of the streets within the city-center were, to a small and very nice cafe? that she knew. She led the way and I was happy to have the cool air on my face. Once we got to the cafe?, we found a nice table and sat down to be approached by the waiter, who said something to us that I could only assume was asking what we wanted.. Kate was nice enough to tell the man, in Dutch, that I only spoke English which triggered the man to bring English menus and speak to us in English as well. Kate ordered a mint tea and I ordered a coffee. The man brought our order soon and did not bother us until we called him for something else. I was mystified by her mint tea since it was an actual mint leaf in hot water. “Whoa, it is actually mint tea,” I said in amazement. “Yea,” she answered, “that’s how it works here.” “Amazing,” I said.

We spent the rest of the day together wandering around the city, stopping for ice cream and watching people and trams move about the city. We walked to Vondelpark and ate our freshly made shoarmas under a tree on the grass. We talked in a seemingly endless conversation and discussed everything from politics to our personal relationship stories. She told me about her life in U.S. and how she was happier here since her life in U.S. was as she described “suffocating”. I agreed, saying, “Yea, I felt suffocated as well, I quit my advertising job and just decided to get away. That is how I ended up here.” Everything flowed so naturally with her, I did not have to hide anything or dress up the truth for her, something I often did for others. She had lived in this city for three years and had a small flat not far from what would become my favorite Chinese restaurant. I lived in the hotel for a week at which point I decided that I would stay here for awhile and be with her, of course I would be here illegally but I didn’t care. I got a job in a coffeeshop selling hash shakes and space cakes to tourists and collecting stories of people from all over the world. I chose to live a life of minimal stress to forget the fast paced, profit oriented life I once had in New York. I guess it was a retreat that I needed desperately and of which I was enjoying every minute. I was happy and content, I adjusted to life quick and began to learn the language slowly but with Kate’s help was communicating in basic terms soon enough.
In retrospect I should have just tried to live with her, but I wanted my own place out of my pathetic feelings of individuality and freedom. So I found a nice and cozy place in the Jordaan district with the rare and very affordable pleasure of facing the canal. Kate often stayed with me there, but kept her own place as well. I guess we were just silly and were scared to fully commit in such a way. Looking back it was probably my fault of not letting her in completely, but she had her own life as well. There was no question however that we were both happy. We took trips together to various places. Her job had a substantial need for her to go to meetings in different parts of Europe and some parts of the world and thus we often went together. We traveled throughout Europe and Japan, which I loved the most, yet we always came back to Amsterdam.
We strolled along the ancient streets and watched the boats move through the canals from a wooden platform we discovered right on the water. We went to Chinatown often and visited a different coffeshops on our route. I learned the names of my favorite brands and always told my boss what he should find. A field researcher, I guess.

We decided to move in together shortly before the event that changed our lives forever took place. We viewed several apartments but had not found the one we wanted. When the sirens rang, all I wanted to do was to hold her and go through this together, but I couldn’t find her. I remember moving towards the station while at the same time thinking I needed to find her. I knew that I would be impossible, but I tried to spot her in the crowd moving towards the station. I crawled up a few bricks in the wall and was surveying the crowd like a gargoyle. I kept moving though. The walls of the station were covered in spray paint logos of the group that was responsible and various messages and misguided quotes of Nietzsche, Marx and other philosophers on the walls. This was a revolution, a desire for destruction rather than life in an organized chaos and control. This was a violent protest against violence. I couldn’t make sense of it, but it did not matter anymore. I never found Kate, I didn’t know if she got out or died, but I knew that I would probably never see her again.

Katya
I noticed Katya looking at me very intensely and inquisitively. I knew that she was in my head but I played along. I gave up trying to get answers from her and was just mesmerized by her gaze. “What’s wrong?” She asked “What? Nothing,” I replied. I was alone on this train with my imaginary friend. “Did you die?” I asked her. “What? What do you mean?” She asked, acting shocked that I would say such a thing.” I know you are not real. I know this train is probably not real. I know that I may be dead. Are you?”
She sighed and looked out the window. “Ahh, Paris,” she finally said.
“Really?” I could not believe it. “Gare du Nord is coming up on your right,” she declared.
I moved closer to the window and stared out like a child about to witness his first view of Paris. I did not know what to think or make of this curious turn. In all honestly I expected the train to continue through arbitrarily snow filled spaces. When we reached the station the train stopped.

Both of us got up and ran to the doors, but they were not opening. I looked for the button to open the doors but it was nowhere to be found. The platform was crowded yet no one appeared to notice us. We hit the glass with our fists and I even tried to kick it out but nothing helped, nothing changed the obvious. The train soon began rolling and in a matter of minutes we were already seeing the Eiffel Tower passing by us. The scenery turned to countryside in the few more minutes and we were back on an arbitrary path to nowhere and everywhere.

I turned around and saw Kate standing there, looking at me. I nodded and walked back towards the restaurant. She followed me, we sat facing each other again. “You never answered my questions,” I pointed out to her. She looked at me then out the window, then down and then at me again. “I don’t know if I died, you are the one that has to figure that out.” “How can I, I never found you.” I told her and turned to look out the window. “I wish I had some more coffee,” I said out loud and turned back towards her. “Maybe the invisible man will appear with some,” she sarcastically said. “Maybe,” I added.
At that moment the waiter came up to us and asked what we wanted. I laughed uncontrollably, looking at him I asked, “can you see her?” He looked at me, then at her, then at me again. “Of course, Sir,” he stated in a perfectly mannered fashion. “Why wouldn’t you, you are all part of my delusion,” I said, to myself really. “I’ll take a coffee and she will have-,” I gestured my hand in Kate’s direction and she asked for the same. The man nodded once and ran along to fetch our coffees. He reappeared few minutes later with two cups with biscotti on each saucer. He left again and returned with a sugar holder that he placed on the table. “Will there be anything else?” He asked and looked at each one of us and I said “yes.” He looked at me awaiting an addition to the order and I sat back and rubbed my chin with my left hand. “What is the next stop?” I finally asked. “Shinjuku, Tokyo,” he answered. Surprised, I nodded and looked at Kate. “We are going to Japan from Paris, fascinating.” She looked back at me and turned to look out the window again, without replying to my statement, which I have to admit, was rhetorical. 
“So tell me, what am I missing?” I asked her. “It is quite evident that this requires some sort of realization. I just don’t know what it is.” She returned to face me and stirring the sugar in her coffee told me, “Continue your memory.” We both sat in silence for few minutes and I understood again.

Brick City

I often sat on my window sill looking out onto the canal the window faced and wondered about the magic of this city, with all its inadequacies and difficulties, there was definitely something about this city. I remember this particular day in the summer; I was sitting there with my cup of tea and a joint looking out my open window at the magical downpour falling into the canal. The sky turned completely white, yet the colors of the trees had become clearer and more alive, as if through a polarized lens. The thunder above gave it a special auditory feeling, a full sensory experience. The rain was strong and constant, washing over everything in its path, this was truly wonderful. The air was suddenly crisp and fresh after the days of intense heat. Everything suddenly felt alive, in motion. I don’t know if it was the weed or if this experience truly was magical. I sat there after the rain had stopped and my cup of tea was empty, I stared out into the emerging people who were hiding from the rain. I still heard bit of thundering as if in the background, yet this was also mixed with the sounds of the city as if awakening after sleep. These kinds of moments were not unusual in this place, I often found myself amazed by the experiences that crept on me here.

My job was meaningless really, but it was pleasant. I provided people with what they looked forward to and I too partook in the experience, sometimes with the customers. I suppose being surrounded by tourists the atmosphere of the city reached me in very minimal doses. When I found myself practically swimming to Centraal Station, I could not believe that such a sublime place was in a state of utter anarchy and despair. People pushing and shoving to get to the station first just seemed out of character for this place, but then again people did that on the way to Auschwitz as well. In any case by the time I reached the doors, the military already closed the entrance, stating that the station was now flooded and evacuations would resume shortly but people needed to find higher ground and be calm.

I began to climb one of the station towers, eventually passing by the clock which displayed the time as 1:25. I found a nook right above the central entrance and sat down looking over the madness of the city. I started to dig around my pockets and found the bag of weed with some papers inside a small zip-lock bag. I proceeded to roll a joint when I realized that I had no fire. I finished rolling and just placed it between my lips, sighing that this was as good as it gets. I pretended to smoke it when a man came up to me and presented a lighter right in front of my face. I looked up and saw a blond short haired man, wet from feet to his head. “Danku,” I said and followed with “sorry, Ik spreek geen Nederlands.”He smiled and said, “That’s ok. Can I join you?” “Of course, sit down.” I said and lit the joint. 
His name was Yob and he was born in Amsterdam. “My name is Yob,” he said, stretching out his hand. I shook his hand and handed him the joint. “My name is Max,” I told him. I lied, maybe it was because I had lost all my past and this seemed like a new beginning or maybe a drawn out end.

We sat there, smoking and looking over the floating bodies and debris. I told him that I could not even imagine such a catastrophe. “Ya, many wouldn’t.” He said and passed the joint back. “What do you think the meaning behind our survival?” I asked and took a big hit. “Ya, well…to live is to suffer. Besides, they have not come back for us yet.” “Yea, you are right.” I told him and passed the joint back. “But, there is got to be a reason, I never found my girlfriend, you know.” “Ya, mine died, was electrocuted in our apartment before I came here.” Yo confessed to me. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know what to say.” “Nei, there is nothing to say. She was not the only one today.” I nodded and pulled the journal out of my pocket. “I used to write in here. But I was concerned with such meaningless shit; life has really made me serious.” I told Yob in a statement. 
“What do you think the meaning is of our survival?” He asked me. I was not prepared for a question of such depth but provided the best answer I could think of. “I guess the meaning is to flourish. To flourish as a human being.” He smiled. “Yes, to flourish in the absurdity, it’s all so absurd.”

Absurd

I looked at Kate and noticed a little smile on her face. Thinking that it looked cute I asked what she was smiling about. “You finally get it,” she said. “Get what?” She looked at me and pointed to her left. We were pulling up to Shinjuku station, she ran to the doors and I followed her. When I got to the doors our routine sprang into action and I began violently beating on the glass. I wanted to point out a Shinkansen to Kate but she was no longer next to me. I turned around to look for her but she was gone, then I turned to the window and there she was, standing on the platform looking at me. I guess that’s the nature of a delusion. I went back to the cabin where I awoke and laid back down on the bench.

I closed my eyes only to open them at the sound of tuk-tuk again. I opened my eyes and being pissed off that this fucking train will not let me sleep I realized. I was laying in an M.R.I. machine with a variety of head adjusters to keep my head straight. The sound was the familiar bang an MRI produces along with the occasional rocking. The technician knew that I was asleep and let me enjoy peace in the elegance of the fantasms of my dreams. And thus, my own world was not only absurd, but elegantly absurd.

The humiliation of laying there bareassed was spared for me here, as instead of playing those games they just lifted my shirt and punctured my spine. It was all they needed to complete the task.

Although some people had terrible pain after, I felt fine. Later in the evening my tailbone and thighs began to ache badly, but the ibuprofein they gave seemed to help greatly.

So that is the end of my story in Dusseldorf. Some after thoughts include the sadness of seeing people in pain first of all, and people from the US. The self proclaimed “best country in the world”, being unable to do a simple tasks that they do here daily.

The waiting room already had patients waiting and continued to fill up through out the course of the day. Sadness and peoples’ tragedies were apparent and painful to see. The screaming autistic child, the wheelchair bound young girl, the woman struggling with a wheeled walker, were all reminders that they too were suffering, perhapse more than some.

The procedure itself was extremely painful although multiple people had said that it would be a minor discomfort. The needle, being jabbed in from time to time hurt so bad that I broke out into a sweat from head to toe. Trying to take it, I did make a yelling sound from time to time due to the pain. I was informed that pain meant that bone marrow was flowing but somehow at the time the pain overwhelmed me to realize the value. Clenchint to my scrubs and breathing heavily into my facemask I made it through, whiping my dripping palms on my pants which I now had pulled up and buttoned.

The pain remained but very lightly, disappearing completely in the span of few hours. Half way done.

The hotel is ok, yet everything is ridiculously priced. For instance, 75 Eur for 7 days of internet package, 23Eur for breakfast buffet. If you ask Google, you can get the rate in Dollars, but take my word that it is ridiculous, but according to the staff, “this is Germany”.

An element present in all US hotel rooms is strangely missing in this Holiday Inn, and that is a Bible. The presence of a Bible was explained to me not long ago, shattering my speculation that hotels provided it, but regardless its not here.