Doubts ensconce themselves in the boudoir of Dame Cognito. In pink lamé, she drapes her curves across my spongy couch as one by one her suitors kneel and bow. These are pudgy little men who promise bells and baubles made of compliments and preen. Bored, my noble madam does her nails in deepest purple; she ignores the manikins and looks at me.
So, she asks again. I scrape the sludge out of my dredger.
You thought your show was over
when the stage went dark?
With this my handsome lady reels into a laugh that would uncouch her.
You are mad (she frankly whispers)
you are mad to be an artist
there is no reprieve
this mind of machination
is your gift and your despair
Wear it bravely, mavin,
wear it boldly and enchanted
and exotic in your hair.
There is movement like a cancer,
there is healing like a balm.
You are present you are absent
you are song.
With this I take my smudgy pencil out of my jeans pocket and a crinkled store coupon too shiny for words. I would lay them at her feet. Make me sane, I say. Make me normal like the women who are happy.
Dame Cognito's purple toenail flicks my pain aside.
You are as normal as they, she mutters.
they as mad as you.
Somewhat sleepier perhaps,
or better actors,
who can say?
They spend a lot of words on wallpaper and gardens, I suggest.
So do you --
refurbishing unconscious thought
for public consummation.
This is risky
and embarrassing
and strange.
I sit dazed, considering. Normalcy. Not in my timeline?
You are captivated
by the sounds that would be born.
Lilliput adores you.
Play the cords that bind and set you free.
photo Britters Szatala
