Abandoned roads - Jos Lammers

good friend, said he would stay with me while I tripped.
We were in his room, somewhere close to the Westerkerk
at a little square with old trees. Fred studied theology and
had a beard and a virtually bald head that glowed along
with his eyes when he laughed, which he often did. The
windows, almost as high as the room, were open. The
mescaline made everything soft and almost fluid. The
sunlight fell in bundles through silver painted holes in
a fluffy white blanket of clouds. High in the air a flock
of birds glided from bundle to bundle. Like the hand of
a flamenco dancer they alternately turned their white
belly and black back from dark into light. Playing with
the sun and the clouds they drew flowing lines in the air,
from black to white to black to white. I only saw these
birds on their swaying flight and all of the sudden everything
fell in its place. I saw the world breathe. That
simple. ‘Look Mom, no hands!’ Fred laughed. “And if you
see... don’t make a sound”, we softly hummed along with
Pink Floyd.
Life, with a little help from my friends. This was the
way to go. But while emptying urine jars and washing
flabby old women’s asses, it was hard to hold on to. In
spite of a quick water pipe in the Oosterpark during
lunch break. That is until this American patient, passing
through from India, arrived on my ward 9 with hepatitis-
B. He had found a guru. That man had taught him meditation
techniques that enabled him to experience life in
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