Beautiful Crazy

by CHRIS TOLIAN

  Peace in Absolute Madness ©2004 Ingrid Swillens
I sit. Steel caged lights hang at the end of frayed black cords, giving little illumination to threadbare rugs of blues and greens and reds. A cold stone floor. Old beer and coffee collects in the cracks. A fine and private place among strangers’ shattered dreams and dying angels. Webs of smoke twine around each other.  Impatient shadows.

A scarecrow burns in a finely tailored suit on the tiny stage.  Torches clenched in outstretched hands, the hollow fool is no longer able to juggle them. Cigarettes form a hot coal halo around the child painted face and strawfilled body.  Hip-hop circus music sputters to a halt.

Someone snickers in the dark.  "Shouldn't play with fire when you're made of kindling."

A beautiful crazy girl stands wrapped in black, spewing little dances of the soul from her pretty mouth. Pale bright eyes and red hair. Perhaps I could love her. Her body tightens. Fists clenched in frustration or rage or remembered pain. She and I would destroy each other. Crushed by our own walls, falling after keeping away too many things.

My beautiful crazy girl with the angry red hair closes her eyes and hugs herself, all strength gone from her features. A faint, eloquent smile plays across her lips. She walks unsteadily to the open microphone: "Gently the world fades. And all the dreams take shape to walk the earth. Silent denizens that are sometimes good and beautiful and sometimes… sometimes manifestations of our darkest thoughts.

"They come forward to caress and dance and laugh and rip and tear and fuck. They come forward, brought into the light to live or die and nothing can be done because they are not real. But they are. Maybe you don’t see them, but they’re there. Maybe they’re not. Does it matter? They are all within us.

"And sometimes the world awakens and forward marches an army of terror to rip apart our lives and our minds. All the depravities, cruelties, and addictions come forth to grip us by the neck and shove our faces in it. Make us see who we really are. Are we any more than animals? Are we? Sometimes I’m not sure.

"But, then again, sometimes we are lifted from the pain and hatred and allowed to glimpse beauty so unimaginable that we can do nothing but weep in joy. It all depends on what is inside us. What we keep hidden away from the rest of the world colors our perception of it."

She sits on the edge of the table and slowly rocks herself to sleep or happiness or numbness. I don’t know. My beautiful crazy girl with whom I weep. I want to run to her. Hold her and tell her. But, I can’t. None of us could do something like that. Why can’t we just let it out? Why can’t I scream or cry until it doesn’t hurt anymore? Why can’t it all go away?

Late in the dark dark night I’m so alone as monsters run around my head, screaming that it’s all my fault. I can do nothing.  Walk away with eyes shut tight. But, Shit! I’m so very little and the hurt is so very big. I’m beaten down so that I can’t get up to run, let alone fight. Followed home to bed. God, I want it to stop.

Two girls sit in a corner booth, all legs and arms. Caressing. Words and murmured laughter. Silver glints from nose and ears and lips. Their knowledge of each other and themselves unaffected by anything. No inhibitions, preconceptions. I don’t know why, but I feel an openness, an honesty. The hurt floods into them, no walls to keep it out. Yet, somehow they accommodate it. Make it go away where it can’t hurt anymore.

They turn towards me. One with eyes blue and knowing. The other deep brown eyes above a warm smile. How can they be like that when the world is so very bad? My chest aches. Nails pierce my mind. I jerk to my feet, colliding with the diseased green formica table. Stagger towards a door below a pulsing red light.

Music cuts in, beating my sick hurt soul. Industrial rhythm of a million voices screaming with the pathos of all who have felt or seen pain unremoved by the artificial distance of our glimmering television screens and modern detachment.

* * * * *

A little girl sits in the back hall. Huddled and dirty, she clutches a naked doll.

“Shhh… hush, baby. Mommy’s here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” She looks up at me.

Poor scared child. Come with me. I won’t hurt you. Blue green eyes guarded.  Cynical.  But you can’t believe that, can you? Can you trust anymore? Have you ever heard anyone say ‘I love you’? I’m sorry… so sorry.

She looks away, singing a sad lullaby.How can any of this exist?! Thoughts collapse. Back of my skull cracks against the rough wall. Quiet.

* * * * *

A hand touches my cheek. I try to pull away. Warm breath whispers once, trembling across my lips. “No.”

Oh God oh god ohgodohgodohgod. I can’t! I… the hurt…

Taste lipstick and cinnamon. Sweat and perfume. Heat of a body pressed against mine. We shimmer just this side or that of sanity. Fingers clench my hair, denim moving against leather and silk.

Feverish kisses. Lips and tongue and teeth. The ultimate dry fuck. Legs spread, wrapping around my hips. She moves with ever greater urgency as she undoes my pants. She grabs my cock and I feel moist satin, tightening warmth. I enter her already cumming. We move together. Passion and lust.

The other stands, leaning against a payphone. Watching. Lilting singsong accent merges with the music. “Fuck her." I can hear her smirk. "She is real, you are real. Let it out! Cry scream rage curse fuck! Empty yourself. Empty her.”

A moan passes through her lips - who's lips? - into my soul. Her head falls back, body arching into mine.

“Let this be the definition of yourself right now. This is real. Let her know your hurt, your pain. Anger and confusion. Guilt.” My body shakes with the word. She notices, blue eyes flashing.

“God. Guilt is the worst of all, isn’t it?" She shakes her head. "Let the last stone fall from the wall. Let us know you. This is not stealing vulnerability. This is an affirmation, confirmation of life… of the reality of yourselves.”

Tears burn my face in flaming streaks of acid. My voice lost. My soul lost in her, in them - their bodies and words. I let go as I cum again, letting go of inhibitions. Breaking the last stone.

We collapse into each other, reeking of sex and sweat. Feel a hand take mine, guiding me up. I open eyes blurred by emotions and thoughts. Screams and curses and tears well up, flooding my mind now that there is no wall to hide behind.

* * * * *                                                            

Harsh flickering lights glisten on rotting porcelain and rusted steel. Stomach knows the script before mind comprehends. So sick. I burst into a stall, falling to my knees among shit and reeking liquids. Smeared black scrawls mock with words I can no longer read. Sick.

So much has driven me to this point. I scream and puke and curse. I didn’t know there was so much disgust and rage inside. Deep deep down, locked away so tight in this or that fine and private place is the guilt. Guilt for what I should have done, what I have done. Guilt for living and the pain of others. Slowly making me cold and ugly. Little emotional suicides for those of us too chickenshit for a gun. I tell them everything, every dark little secret.

A flash of a dream. A random psychotic thought sparks across overloaded neurons.

Late at night when the demons come, I peer from the edge of the world. Shadow of a torturer rides towards me upon piss warm breeze. I see, him almost human.  Almost God. Not really either. Squeeze the trigger. Blam!

  Angel ©2004 Ingrid Swillens

Shattered glass falls from a broken mirror.

                                                  * * * * *

Soft touch brushes hair out of my face. Guilt and frustration wiped from my lips.

“God! Just let me be sick and die.” She can see it! God, she can see that I’m a monster too. I never… I couldn’t! I was helpless. It’s not my fault! Is that a lie?

“Forget about the monsters. They all die in the end. Love the survivors. Love us! Love yourself. The hurt has been done. Just be there for them. Always come back to them. Hold them when they cry.” She pulls my head to her chest.

“I… I can’t forget… the monsters.” Body racked by sobs and dry heaves.

Those blue eyes flash deep into mine. “Then kill them. Let their memories die. Heal. They can’t hurt anymore.”

The other speaks up. Fingers raise my face to hers, brown eyes so full of compassion and knowing. “Perhaps they are only hollow, like the scarecrow out there on his tiny stage. False people. Empty.” She smiles so softly sad.

I realize I too am empty. Empty of the pain.  The rage and guilt are gone. The fine and private place deep deep down is ready to be filled again.

I lean back. Light another cigarette and laugh. Look up and the twins smile again, each bending to kiss my lips.

“All that pain and self disgust is there because you refuse to accept responsibility for you actions… inactions. Your soul cries, but you can’t weep. You know how now. Heal yourself. Remember the survivors. Teach them if you can.”

I close eyes once again blurred with tears. I cry.

                                                       * * * * *

Searching for the exit, I stop in front of the little girl. She looks up, so full of desperate innocence. To learn from a child… I offer her my hand and she smiles, hesitating only for an eternal second.

We walk out through the smoke and stale incense.  My beautiful crazy girl sits, rocking herself still. My beautiful twins watch from a distance, whispering. The little girl traces a circle in my palm. So small those fingers. But, I understand. The healing. Circle of pain, rage despair. Emptying. Healing.

Something somewhere softly burns as I lay a cigarette upon the scarecrow’s ashes. I laugh. We are all beautiful and crazy.