Much madness is divinest sense,
To a discerning eye;
much sense the starkest madness.
-Tis the majority,
In this, as all, prevails,
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur- you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
-Emily Dickinson
-------------------------------------
Who was I? What was I becoming? What was I doing to myself?
Before, it was only brief moments of confusion. Now there were such huge lapses in sanity I was getting worse at fighting off what I was uncertain of. My true emotions distorted and something from the depths of my soul- something born in ill repute- seized the person I knew. An unpredictable tug-of-war. The real Mark Cohen was slipping out of sight and falling from grace.
And so is life.
--
"Collins?"
"This is Tom."
"It's Mark."
"Hey! Aw- Mark, how're ya doing?"
"…I...visited...Angel today..." You fucking asshole.
Silence on the other end.
"…Oh. Oh, um, okay…Uh- h- how is she…?"
I laughed out loud, into the phone.Well, I imagine she's fucking rotted to dust by now Collins!
"She's- she's good." I bit back laughter.
"Good to hear it- uh, Mark? Why are you calling?"
What? I can't call my friend?
"I don't know."
"Oh. Well, I'm kinda busy right now. I'll call you back later if you still have something you need to say."
"Yep. Sure." It was like he knew. He was hanging up because he knew I was going to insist on being an asshole.
I slammed down the receiver.
Now what was I going to do? I'm stuck in this fucking loft with no one to talk to.
Oh yeah.
There's Roger.
I'm done interacting with Roger for today. Let him suffer in his room by himself.
I check the temperature outside. Twenty degrees. The sun's behind a cloud. There's a wind chill.
...A perfect day for a walk...
Pacing this loft makes me claustrophobic. There's nothing to do here but listen to Roger play the Fender.
I wonder what will happen to it once he's gone.
I know!
I'll chop it up and use it for firewood. I'm going to need it.
I check the inside temperature. Thirty-five degrees.
It's an accomplishment.
--
Where am I going to go?
I shuffle around on the ice at the bottom of the stoop.
New York City. How fucking claustrophobic.
Everything and nowhere to go. Everything and nothing. Nothing and the Empire State Pharmacy.
You're a fucking failure Mark.
--
"Where did you go?"
"Santa Fe."
"That's not funny. I got worried."
"For a walk."
"In this weather?"
"It's only fifteen degrees colder than it is in here."
"I can't afford to have you catch a cold!"
"You also can't afford the heating bill…"
"Yeah, I realize that. And that's why-"
"And you also can't afford your AZT."
"Mark- ?"
"Or Medicare."
"Okay, whoa! Shut up! What the fuck? Yeah, I know. And that's why you shouldn't take walks in the freezing weather! We've got to be more careful-"
I tuned him out. My mind was elsewhere.
My eyes glazed over.
"…Mark are you listening?"
"Huh?"
He sighed and frowned. The lesion wrinkled in his worry lines. I set my jaw.
"What was it like?"
"Huh? What was what like?"
"Santa Fe. Tell me about it."
Roger shot me a sideways glance.
Mark is crazy.
"It was lonely. I had to come back. I don't want to think about it."
"No, tell me."
"About me or about the city?"
"What did you think about?"
"Mark, I don't want to go back to th-" He sighed. "Home. Here. Mimi. April. Angel. You. Life. I thought about life. What else was there to think about? It was a desert. There was nothing. Even back, even now, I have nothing."
Roger's second facial expression: Dying.
"I thought about- I thought there was hope back here. I wrote- I wrote a song. I got it out of me. There was nothing in Santa Fe. There was nothing in New York. And then there was nothing inside of me."
"Weird." I said.
"What's weird?"
"I was just thinking about that while I was walking. That- there's nothing. Where is there something?"
"Huh?"
"Well if there's nothing everywhere then where is there something?"
"Oh, Mark, don't think like that. Maybe that came out wrong. My life felt empty, but I had Mimi to come home to. And all of you. There's something everywhere. You just have to look for it. Why am I explaining this to you? Aren't you a filmmaker?" The broken smile.
I rubbed the scar on my pinky and thought.
"Not- not so much anymore…I don't…" I didn't have to explain anything to Roger.
He stared at me in disbelief.
"What? Why?"
"I don't know." I was getting insecure. I had to get up.
"No- Mark- wait!" Roger stood and grabbed for my shoulder. "Are you serious? I haven't seen you with the camera lately, but I just thought-"
"I don't know Roger. I don't want to…talk…about…"
"Mark- ?"
"There's just- there's no one to film anymore, okay? I'm sick of all these shots of you."
I don't know if I meant that as humor or truth.
It didn't come out sounding like either.