This is What it’s Like Being Crazy

Posted: 28 August, 2014 in Daily Droppings
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I started listening to Dylan again. I have not done that really since high school. Delphi and I breakfasted together before she left for work. We smoked some grass and I went on the back porch to write. Nothing was really coming so I read about abstract expressionism.

That sticky, smelling cold tar of depression is at it again. I can feel in under my heels as I walk outside. It’s like when Epileptics say they can feel seizures coming on. They get a sense of déjà vu. I don’t think I am alone in this regard, that is, that I can feel when the balance of my mental faculties is about to violently shift. Virginia Wolf, in her suicide note, told her husband that she could feel the change coming on once again and she feared that this time she would not recover.

I suppress what I hope will be another fleeting urge to kill myself by fantasizing about cutting off the little finger on my left hand – or should I start with a toe? Which would be less inconvenient to do without? Because a little toe seems like no big deal, but I hear that you never realize how much you need them for balance. – as punishment for being such a tremendous failure of a human being.

I wonder what it would be like to fist girls with one less finger

Sometimes there’s this funny thing about being crazy and knowing it. Sometimes there are ways to hide your crazy so no one ever knows just how scrambled your eggs really are.  I drop my knife and keys on the counter inside and lock the door behind me. I can’t get in because I usually use my knife to slip the catch of my bedroom window and pry it open – whenever I move into a new place the first thing I learn is how to break in, due to the frequency of me losing my keys.

Having physically barred myself from all guns, knives, and poisons, I am now forced to sit and wait for my housemates to return.

I look at the book and think about something they said about titles of paintings. That while some schools of art were very plain in their titling of works, – “Portrait of Some Douchebag”, or “A Bowl of Genital-Shaped Fruit” – the abstract expressionists often chose to use titles that were intentionally obfuscational – “Blue Opus #7”, or “Untitled ”, or “This Thing I Did That is Totally Different From the Other Thing I Did”.

It got me thinking about titles of books, then about those parts of books that aren’t the books themselves. Things like introductions and chapter titles and dedications.

There’s only two dedications I can remember off the top of my head. One is Kurt Vonnegut’s dedication in The Children’s Crusade better known as Slaughterhouse Five, which he dedicated to the wife of his friend with whom he served during the firebombing of Dresden (at least I’m pretty sure that’s what happened). And I remember that because it is part of the story.

The other one I can remember cold is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which Dr. Hunter S. Thomson dedicates:

To Bob Dylan

For “Tamborine Man”

Which is how we get to Dylan. And back to my housemates, who I now remember have gone to Vegas for the weekend to celebrate Zilla’s birthday at some orgy there and won’t be back till late tomorrow.

Fine I think, all the better. I walk up to the upper level of the porch. There’s a table there, too high to sit at and too sketchy to sit on. On the table is a half empty bottle of baby oil and two house slippers filled with cigarette butts. I lay down in on the porch, stare at the small pile of dog shit in the corner, and scratch at the wood with my fingernails.

I should just throw myself off, I think. Nah, it’s too low and there’s a bunch of stuff in the way. I’d probably just end up horribly crippled, then I’d really have to kill myself.

So I continued to lay on the porch.

I’m thinking on that Thompson dedication again and I’m overcome with the desire to listen to “Subterranean Homesick Blues”, but fuck, the music is inside. I start hitting the boards with my fists. I’m on the verge of tears. I don’t know why, but I keep punching the wood till scratches appear on my knuckles.

I really should cut off that finger. That’ll teach me.

I’ll just sleep up here. I won’t eat anything, just stay here till I die or someone comes out to smoke a cigarette.

I still want to listen to that song. I want to know why other people listened to him and made art. I sit up. The sun is going down. It’s gotta be around 7:30, maybe later. I don’t know how the last since six hours have passed. I squint onto the sun (I stand up to do this. The standing helps.) and something in the colours makes everything a little nicer and I know I’ll be fine. I won’t be great, but I’m not going to kill myself tonight.

Then I remember that I left the front door unlocked. I go inside and listen to “Subterranean Homesick Blues” on repeat till Delphi comes home for dinner. She asks me how my day was.

Eh, I say, not great. It was just…

I don’t finish my thought.

She doesn’t ask.



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