Poisoned Punch Bowl

a diary of thought.








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www.poisonedpunchbowl.com
2003-05-21
7:51 p.m.


Riding in a taxi in the rain on a seat of cracked leather, white stuffing popping up in tufts. The driver talks to himself and I say "What?" and "Excuse Me?" at least five times until I realize he is not talking to me. He is talking to himself or maybe he is talking to a god that I can't see. I find the confusion interesting.

I have often thought that maybe the insane are really communing with god. Maybe those people that we view as insane are really the ones with the best grip on reality. The man walking down the street talking to himself is really talking to something divine. The woman punching at the air with clenched fists is really doing battle with something invisible. Maybe we are seeing the dance without the music.

Maybe they are just nuts. One too many martinis or one night stands. One too many loves lost or iron fists or insults hurled or death or suffering. Maybe a few chemicals missing in their minds. Something short circuited. Something dark, dark blue. Something sharp in their heads that stabs them gently when they try to think. A lack of love. A loss of hope. Society damage. New York City sounds. Highly sensitive people that got overstimulated. Too much Coca-Cola. Creativity stifled.

I want to know how it starts, where it ends. If it comes soft and slow in the night or fast and hard as you stand in the subway. One day you're shopping for produce at the farmers market and the next day you are having conversations with traffic lights. If you are so-called "crazy", does it ever cross your mind that you are? Would you think once in awhile "Boy I am really crazy!" Would you revel in it? Would it piss you off?

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