More writings of Jamie Darger

"Notes on Madness"

If I could at least name this madness that approaches me. That circles me. If I could see well enough to it - to see the whites of it's eyes. If I could feel it's cold breathe on my palm...

This madness creeps slowly, quietly. It plans in it's down time it's stratagem. It lies like a snake in the grass. It moves like a thief in the night. It borrows time from another day like a hard earned junkie. It stays in the distance, howling like a coyote in the early evening. It never sleeps, this madness. When it arrives, when it comes through my ear, it tickles. My head, like being suddenly dunked into a barrel of water, paralyzed with fear, gasping for air. It flips like a switch. The neurons in my head call for anarchy. The realness of the moment is daunting, divisive, ominous. If there was a place to go, to run, there I would go. I move, getting nowhere it can't find me. Like trying to clean grease from your hands, with water. Like picking lint out of Velcro. Like scratching your throat with your tongue or trying to relieve the pressure of a headache mounted behind your eyelid.

Usually this madness forces me to a climax; wide eyed and shaking strikes to sweaty, panicked moment of doom. And as quickly as it comes...there it goes. Fading into the trees as a pouncing cat, light of it's paws.

In my down time I internalize it's impact. I make use by creating walls of dirt and mud and sticks; I rise my best defense position. I am no use to the world at times like these. I am at home, locked in, fearing the shadows that sneak into the darkness, plotting my defense. I would if I could plan an offensive. Track this madness to it's grounds- sneak into it's camp and destroy it...

I have attempted to go toe to toe with this passive aggressive monster. But losing myself to the fear I lead with the chin. Oh, this squeaking siren. This weaver of chaos. The best of my efforts are to no avail. This ghost, this wisp of strange smelling smoke, this chill. It is impervious to my action. My prayers fall short; I am shamed at my inability to master my thoughts. Where has this madness grown. Where was this conceived. Where are the parents of this creature...please, leave me- I am not your purpose! Go home to your own. There is no vacancy left in my head. I have drunk your poison! Is there more to bare? Still, there is no death for my wishful deed. There is no magic for my curse. Where am I to go from here?

Jamie Darger
2006