Who's Mad?

I saw a yellow butterfly this morning. It came flapping down from the trees, circled me twice, and vanished over the wall. It had a bare spot on its left wing, where the--the butterfly-pollen--what do you call that stuff? Anyhow, it had a bare spot, where that had rubbed away. You could see the sky shining through. It made me conscious of my sweater, which also has a hole. (I don't have to wear holey clothes. Mother bought me new ones last year, and threw out most of the old. This one's my favourite, though. Besides, the hole doesn't show anything embarrassing--just a strip of skin under the arm.)

After the butterfly, I saw an exceptionally large crow. I saw two sparrows, two starlings, and two dogs on strings. I saw a bum picking olives from a Quizno's sarnie. He waved. I went over. "Not an olive fan?"

"Would you believe it? I tell the guy 'hold the olives,' and he hears 'extra olives.' How do you do that?"

"Same thing happened to someone I know," I said. "She wrote 'no peppers,' and he thought it was '10 peppers.' Her handwriting's pretty bad, though."

He laughed. "Want a bite?"

"Nah."

"You sure? It's fresh."

"I don't like Quizno's buns." (Really, I don't mind them, but I hate eating things other people have touched.)

We chatted about fast food preferences for a while; then, I moved on. I went round the block, and back inside via the front entrance. This must've been around nine, nine-fifteen. I wanted to stay out longer, but I like to finish writing before dark. The lighting's awful in here. It gives me a headache, sitting in the dark with the screen glaring at me.

Speaking of writing, I've decided on the next story. I'm going with the barmy professor idea. At first, I was worried I might be using the same character twice, but this fellow's madness is different from Arthur's. Arthur goes mad when his life veers off course. The professor--let's call him Bertram, for now--is mad, straight off the bat. His mental condition improves towards the middle of the book, but he can't hang on. He finishes up worse than ever.

I used to worry about going mad, myself. This was a long time ago--first year of high school, sort of thing. My teachers all said I was disruptive. I tried not to be, but it was too boring, that way. I didn't like men. I thought I must be gay. (I was too young for men. Why didn't I know that? I was the youngest in my class.) Then, our school put on Hamlet, and I was Hamlet, and I liked telling folks I was but mad north-north-west, et cetera*. How I got from there to suspicions of honest-to-God insanity, I can't imagine. Eventually, I realised I haven't the imagination to go mad. I'm not afraid of the dark because it might contain monsters, but because I might step on a nail. If the power goes out, I don't freeze in terror: I slide my feet along, instead of stepping. (It's another matter if someone threatens to vomit near me, but everyone's allowed one phobia, eh?)

I'd forgotten about my obsession with madness, till I found myself writing about it twice in a row. Funny, how these things pop up.

They played Chopin's berceuse in D-flat major on the radio, today. I used to play that, myself. It was a good warmup piece: gentle, relaxing, not terribly difficult. It got me in the mood. I stopped writing when it came on, and stared out the window, wishing I had a piano. Mother looked at some when she was here last, and reported back with the prices. I'd have to sell five or six novels, if I wanted a new one. For a second-hand one, maybe just three or four. (Maybe I really am mad. Materialistic folks shouldn't be writers.)

I've used the word "mad" so many times it's lost all meaning.

I found an excellent anagram this morning, while editing Giant Rats.

I'm still craving lemon barley water. Maybe lemonade and tonic water would do.

* Which amounted to telling them I wasn't mad at all, but there you have it.