Am I in The Storm, or just Wendy’s? (or “One minded like the weather, most unquietly”)

SS_KingLearBeen thinking a lot about madness.

Saturday, 9:30 am.

Gotta’ hustle. It’s the last day of the King Lear seminar and I’m reading the Fool. Spaced out paying the mortgage, swing by the post office to avoid litigation. Starving. That’s when I spot Wendy’s across the street. Sweet. Line’s short, but I’ve got a bad feeling ’bout the fat chick. Identity cloaked from behind, but I spot the collapsible aluminum grocery cart, the overly enclosed body (boots, knit cap, formless long ain’t that cold) and the vaguely belligerent body language and alarms sound. I settle in.

That’s when it starts. Again.

I miss her. When am I gonna’ clean the apartment? Am I a fool, or am I the Fool or am I simply her fool? Do I need an oil change? Ego, love and hunger collide as I wait for breakfast. Look, I’m an artist, I imagine stuff. I’m used to multiple dialogs going on in my head. There’s a lot of space. Not voices, but a discordant mishmash of thought and ideas looking for resolution. But this is different, I don’t “get” all of the dialogs. They don’t conform to my neatly organized view of myself, humanity.reality. A tiny rip in the fabric of expectation.and what “is”.

“No, I want pancakes, hash browns, a biscuit and eggs. And a coffee. And sausage. You know, a “big breakfast”. And how much is that?” The fat chick has fired the first salvo at the Indian register jockey. Her order bears no resemblance to the offerings on the backlit menu. His confusion manifest, he soldiers on, knowing it’ll end sooner or later. He’s dealt with this before. She’s getting jacked up. A disharmonious intersection of jingoism and frustrated food lust. This stuff is gold; this is why I moved back to the city. To feed my soul, my art. But, to this moment, they only fill conversations, unspoken, with her. Sharing a life that doesn’t exist. Illusion. She’s an illusion. No, she’s not; I’ve been through too much gibberish not to.know. “That’s sharp. Man, that is sharp!” the homeless guy in the back shouts in admiration to his unseen companion. This is gold. Love, real, unreal, unrequited.unconditional. Jesus, pay attention to the fat chick and the bum. This is it. This is real. God’s giving you gags and you’re lamenting a fantasy. Maybe, but it’s a good one.

Fat chick’s got her food, she confesses to being hard to please. English and Hindi are flying like SCUD missiles, and I’m thinking ’bout a girl from PA. My priorities are screwed. Who came up with the idea that biscuits are a legitimate delivery vehicle for breakfast foods? Like to smack ’em in the head. Too crumbly, making it hard to concentrate on the lines of the Fool as I shove this “meal” into my face. Time’s a wasting, gotta’ go, cutting this too close.

Back in the truck, moving up Wilson, if I’m gonna’ go mad might as well be here.familiar, comfortable. Get back on 29, cross the Roosevelt, swing down onto the Rock Creek Parkway. This place is “kitty central”, beautiful women running on a Saturday morning, sculpting forms already made lovely by benevolent gods. Note: revisit come spring. Look, women ain’t the problem. You invite them in, you welcome their attention, you taste them and send them away. They’re not her. They’re not it. Whatever, they’re real, they’re here and you still create distance to leave room for her. And she ain’t coming. Maybe, maybe not. Should’ve asked her to be your wife. Maybe she is. She never chose you, for anything.didn’t even “break up” with you, too concerned for the feelings of anybody else, and herself, couldn’t be bothered. She’s young. How comforting. Must make you feel great. If it’s real’ it’s real’ right? Shut up. I don’t need logic. Natalie Imbruligia comes through the radio, moaning ’bout being naked on the floor. Speaking uncomfortable fact as if it’s truth. I miss the ignorance of youth. Comforting, knowing you aren’t supposed to be right. Knowing that action is all. I miss her. Our possible future.

(And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry, the fool will stay, And let the wise men fly.)

Hit Connecticut, turn left. Allanis Morrisette sings “you’ve already won me over.” I’d thought she’d felt this.once, maybe still. Felt the love the way I did, still do. That it just.”was”. All the parts where they should be.

She’s argued with her boyfriend that he doesn’t treat her as well as me. Dick boy, operative word “boyfriend”, she didn’t choose you. He takes the love you covet like you pull a Slurpee, what are you, a retard? She doesn’t know. Yeah, she’s ignorant. No, it’s just.she doesn’t know. She knows she don’t think what you hold ain’t shit. Turned her back pretty quick, didn’t she?

(Love’s not love, when it is mingled with regards that stands, aloof from th’ entire point.)

Connecticut Avenue is like playing “Doom”, these people are crazy. Crushed metal is the reward for inattention. Pay attention. I pass the movie theater and restaurant that should’ve been our last night. “The Wizard of Oz” and some stinky cheese. She wanted to pay. I miss her. Why didn’t I stick to it? That Christmas would have made her see. You miss a dream. No, she just.walks streets I’ve already been down. She’ll see. Jesus God, I’m getting tired of this, take these women, they open themselves to you. Even the ones who haven’t yet. Lie. It’s okay to have “distance” in a relationship.. They’re real, untainted by.knowledge. By this “love” you think you’ve found. It’s never felt like this. After all this time, it’s new. Like some kind of wacky revelation. She doesn’t chose you. What I’ve waited for. She doesn’t write about you, does she? All the others, but not you.

Forever. (O, that way madness lies. Let me shun that.)

Swing into the Wesslyan Unitarian church, where I’ve met the others for these past six weeks. Lear holds answers. I’ve believed this since I was 20. I’m no closer. I’m still a fool. But only for her. The others feel my knowledge. Real useful isn’t it? I think of her. Even though I know her thoughts of me are all prefaced by “Silly rabbit.”. Ron reads Lear brilliantly; my Fool reflects the moments dedicated to her and not the text. I stagger through the words, but I still feel them. I feel she is gone.

(O, matter and impertinency mixed, Reason in madness!)

Dropped by the liquor store on the way home, thinking ’bout writing this. The sticker wrapped around the parking meter said “All may park, all must pay”. A lesson?

Picked up some Courvoisier. Cold warmth in glass.

Ego, time and modernity conspire against the passion, love and simplicity of what I feel.

I just love her.

No good reason (all good reason). I just do. Yeah, whatever, you ain’t dead. Do what the Hoosiers do, “move on”. Even a “Cheesehead” knows to “get over it”, continuation of the species and all.

Yeah, and who’s the fool?

Like I said, been thinking a lot about madness.