A FEW OLDIES: THE OTHER

You would call me mad. Call me Mad.

I am talking to you. Talk. I am talking to you. I can hear your responses; you are human and normal and hence, very predictable and, may I say, quite boring, no offence meant.

Now picture to yourself anything. A place, and me. Any place. A glade perhaps, lush and green, with a slow trickling waterfall, polished shapely stones lining the little creek where you will wet your toes. You can hear the leaves rustle, the wind whistles, the birds chirp – quite a rhapsody in fact. You look at me.

I am talking to you.

Perhaps you would picture a library, closed Gothic windows, arches, columns, marble, bookcases, red carpet, lamp lights, fire places, thick tobacco smoke, and you see me, lying languidly on a leather armchair, carelessly tossing magazines around. You look at me.

I am talking to you. 

Now that we’re comfortably settled I shall talk to you.

Why would I?  I am mad. I can do anything; insanity is my licence; I can trespass, I can wound, I can yell, I can scream, I can enter your head and turn it to a confused Babel. I am Mad.

Are you afraid?

Of course not.

You are reading. You are not afraid of words on your computer screen, on your books. You can close your browser window and shut down your computer. You can close the book and throw it into the creek or the fireplace.

But aren’t you listening?

You aren’t reading. You are here, in any place, with me. We are alone and you know I am mad. I could be superhuman, I could be violent, I could be deranged. Anything, a flicker of an eyelid, a twitch of your lips, and it could precipitate my insanity.  I could attack you. I could in fact kill you.

I am stronger than you.

Haven’t you heard of the strength of the insane? They fear nothing. Consequence and cause.

We’re alone and you’re scared. 

But no, your eyebrows are slightly lifted and you are wondering why you even started reading this. You are contemplating whether or not you should spend the next few minutes reading futile ramblings of Mad.  For you have precious things to do in the next few minutes. You are not scared of Mad. But you are scared. Your fright defines you. You are fidgeting, looking at your watch, thinking of the next thing. 

But you are not listening to me.

I am talking to you.

We’re alone and you’re scared. You cannot shut me down. You cannot throw me into a creek.  You cannot think. You aren’t looking at your watch anymore; you don’t give a damn about the next thing.

Sit down, please; and do not look so annoying. Look interested. Feel interested. I shall feel quite insulted if you were more interested in your watch and its hands and the crystal in it, than in me.

Because, I am talking to you. 

We’re alone and I’m not a browser window.

I am mad.

I am Mad.

Call me Mad.

Many months ago, I was you.

Would you like a lollipop, by the way? No? Oh, alright. Don’t accuse me of impoliteness, I did ask.   Draw a doodle. Go on. No? Do you like mine? Ah! Accusatory eyes! Here I am, alone in any place, with mad, Mad, whatever, and draw a doodle? Yes, indeed. For when I am done with you, I am going to kill you. And last time I checked, they don’t let you draw doodles in purgatory. Ask Dante.

Many months ago, I was you.

Now picture to yourself a comic strip, say, like Tintin or Asterix. Can you see the colours? Slide your hands over the glossy pages. Feels nice? Smells fresh? Or do you prefer that nice old-book smell?

Captain Haddock is drunk and has smashed Tintin, Calculus et al into a huge something. Crash! Ka-boom! Biff! Thud! Smash!

http://dammitisanybloodyaddressavailable.blogspot.com/

That was it.

All of them ceased. But of course Herge would bring them all back miraculously, but Herge wasn’t the one to decide here.

Thus, I ceased.

Possession.

Me ceased. She ensued.

Mad saw. Mad heard. Mad did not understand.

That day the rain singed the grass.

She possessed Mad?

I would not know.  Who would? Why would you idiots think that you could define the world in terms of five meagre senses? Or is it that the world is defined because of five meagre senses? Is it that a dog that saw the rainbow is mad because it is not a part of its world of conventional interpretations?

Overkill! You think. You are thinking of 911. Hey presto! You have no cell phone, no PDA, no laptop. We’re alone.

You’re scared.

The rain singed the grass.

Mad saw, heard, smelt, tasted, touched, but Mad could not.

Mad tried. Mad could not.

Mad went to the shrink. Mad could not.

Mad got locked up. Mad could not.

You would call me mad. Call me. Call me mad. Call me Mad.

You look at me.  But you do not see. I am no one but I am. I have nothing but I am. You are going to die now. Can you look at Mad, at madness, and say ‘I am’?

Care to draw a doodle? Draw a funny one. Go on. Poke fun at your boss. Lollipop? You don’t get that either in purgatory. Ask Dante. He knows.

The days after the rain singed the grass and the wind screamed a dirge in the sepulchral trees, cannot be remembered. I remember when I was you. I remember when I am Mad. But the days in between have been lost in translation, so to speak.

Throw away your watch. I am going to kill you.

You threw it away. I know.

You think that if you listen to me, I will spare you.

You are wrong.

I am mad.

Do the dying really see their lives flashing in front of their eyes?

The possessed do. In the moment of possession. They do. Possession is death. You are no more you.

She decides. You obey. She decides. You obey. She decides. You obey.

Can you see your life flashing in front of your eyes? Can you hear yourself? Can you hear your lies? Can you see what you are? Can you say “I am”?

You are edging away from me.  Your nerves are throbbing against your temples. Your palms are sweaty. You muscles are painfully petrified.

I am coming.

The days after the rain singed the grass, people ceased. Many months later, after she tore me apart, she left me to piece together the shattered ruins of you. And then, she whispered- she only whispers- to the North Wind to blow them away and the South Wind to scatter the ashes.

The days after the winds sung my obituary, I lived.

She had left me.

And I shall leave you.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“But I already have.”