S T R E A M # 1 2

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Trees don’t want the grass to eat peas when it rains. As to exactly why, the most recent findings are inconclusive. There are many theories. And there are times when the smudges on my glasses (my eyeglasses and my wine glasses) don’t trouble me at all. At such times, I wonder if I am not going batshit crazy. And then, I think, to myself, I think, sometimes aloud, I think, if one can think aloud, I think, what does it mean to go batshit crazy? How, exactly, is “batshit” maddening? My guess is that somebody, long ago, ate some batshit, and somebody else was witness to this; and whoever it was who had eaten the batshit, apparently lost his (or her) marbles. But then one, such as yourself, might wonder: Was the eater of the batshit not crazy before he ate it? What would move a clinically sane somebody to eat batshit? A dare? Blackmail? I suppose a batshit muncher could be starving, but that might be indicative of other issues. You can be mad and starving, and then, you can just be plain ole starving. Can’t you? Perhaps the eater of the batshit was, simply, hungry, and not at all mad. Still, we assume, we conclude, we surmise, we reckon, that this poor famished fellow (or malnourished madam) was pegged as a nutter when he (or she) was caught consuming batshit. But I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there. All of this is conjecture. (But then, what isn’t? That’s right, what isn’t conjecture? What constitutes “sufficient evidence”? That which constitutes “sufficient evidence” is not unlike that which constitutes “beauty,” no? ‘Tis all in the eye… of the tiger.) Nevertheless, at some point, batshit was attached to madness. That is, unless, of course, I am the only one in all of existence who thinks that “batshit crazy” is a long-lived phrase. That would be something, if I were the only one who had ever heard of the phrase: “batshit crazy.” Assuming, that is, that I had made it up myself and, for all these years, erroneously believed that many other people had used it for their own purposes. Thinking on it further, I cannot recall the last time I heard somebody use the phrase, “batshit crazy.” It is disturbing, somewhat, that, perhaps, I’ve been mistaken on this matter, this belief, for so many years. But it would not be the first time. Or, at least, it would not be the first time I had perceived something that was not true. This happens to me on a weekly, if not a daily basis. I find I must keep my mouth shut more and more and more because my memory and my judgment, more and more, and more, cannot be trusted. I am desperately seeking Susan—no, I am desperately seeking something I can believe to be true, and true at all times. Rather, that is, something that isn’t cold. Yes, that’s right, I want more warm true things to believe in. For example, I want to believe in hot rococo. Make that hot coco. But, before you know it, it’s gone cold. And the trees and the birds and the grass are conspiring to retake the city. But the city doesn’t listen. The city, it’s gone deaf. I’m going deaf. I have persistent ringing in my ears. My right hear ears far less than my heft. By the time I hit farty, I’ll need leering aids. And the grass is laughing. Behind my back. Fortunately, I can’t hear it. Really? Honestly? Grass? No. It doesn’t laugh. At most, it giggles. I know you don’t believe me, but one day, you’ll know it to be true, too. You’ve simply got to spend more time by yourself. You’ll hear it giggling. Or, you’ll hear it sobbing. Bottom (and more than a fair bit beyond) reached. 

2 June 2008 

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S T R E A M # 3 0

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