Yes, the mad have all the answers. They may not be the answers you want, but they will always be answers. Never ask a crazy man anything you dont really want to know. The less you care about his response—as if you were toying with him—the more accurate it will be.
Just who are the mad? Who is crazy? Who am I to be crazy, if such I am? My answer could begin anywhere. I am my own heaven: admittedly, a crazy heaven. Not a craziness that contradicts serenity, but still crazy. And I am my own Earth, though I honor it as my mother. The craziness she breeds in me is a joy at once too fragile and too strong to take into the city. Perhaps when I speak to people the mask slips or even comes off for a moment. But for the most part I keep it on in public. The madman under the mask is a familiar fixture at home; out in public he’s an anomaly.
By craziness I dont mean insanity, let that much be clear. I mean individuality to the point of subversion, or at least resistance to all that might threaten or negate being who I am. I do not mean solipsism. I mean . . . the courage of my solitude. And I do not mean misanthropy. I mean courage of solitude and determination to self-reliance. Nor do I mean any moral judgment on society, as if that should change society. I mean courage of solitude, joy of unfettered sensuality, freedom of intellect, gratitude for a free-spirited life. And the beauty, the pleasure of life lived as poetry.
What more can I say? Poetry is endless, inexhaustible; it will never stop speaking. What more must I say? Evidently everything. Whatever has not yet been said, as well as much that has been, just not by me. Or if by me, in ways that are not as new and fresh as those that will come to me in time. Simply because it’s a joy to speak, to find new bottles, as they say, to pour the old wine into.
If this is part of my craziness, then I want to grow old thus crazy. Not just filling new bottles, but drinking from them as well. And from old bottles not yet empty. Much as I love and crave silence, I want to speak, sing, chant, pour words into the void like stars into a never-ending Milky Way. And to hear, to read the words of other crazy men and women. Never stop listening to them, never stop discovering insights, soul thrills, colors, nuances that fellow artists of the word have shaped into a literature of honesty and ecstasy.
(note: the foregoing is from my book “A Horse on the Moon,” published by empty sky press, available on Amazon.)