While Thomas Went Mad (part one: Balance)
Thomas thought of madness quite often or at least what madness would allow. I mean it’s madness after all, he thought, would I, me, he or that beleaguered soul in a muddied street below seen from a high window who could be me even know?
No, he walked the halls leaning, for balance, sliding his left palm on those ancient and smoothed stone walls over words not quite worn, though he knew that would take more time, well beyond his, well beyond his imagined, words he only partially understood (were they of Master Pembroke, of his stories of devout guidance or were they of Saint – he so wished to meet Saint someday) but only the good parts of the words of course, he hoped, assumed, thought, wished through his unrelenting stark dark visions, or dreams, instead, as he was more inclined to call them, simple dreams, yes, that was a bit easier to couch, much more benign but what if he were backwards in thought, a pretzeled logic instead where that what which was are would could seemed stitched together with a thread of hope, assumed good, are actually not that at all, meant only to distract instead and merely to just be the bad, awful wanderings of his head?
Thomas thought hard on this, as hard as he could, as hard as his fractious mind would allow in shoulds and woulds and coulds and maybe’s though, he was sure, as absolutely sure as he could be expected to be in his me’s, I’s, he’s that still existed somewhere in that me, I, he, he knew, primally at the base of the hairs on the back of his neck, the ones on his arms, the ones on his legs even in the shorter ones below that just confused him as they made no curling sense, especially when they gave way to tall, that this wasn’t actually madness after all as right side up becomes wrong side down while sliding his left palm, for balance, along smoothed walls, with words inscribed that he was erasing over time, he just knew … plus I can’t be expected to have madness make sense now can I he thought? I must just treat it, address it in simple maddened minded maddening terms. Maybe even embrace it.
And Thomas waited this madness and walked and leaned for balance, and smoothed those words over time with his left palm of he or a his or a mine and he waited. There would be a time … that was all he knew … there would be a time.
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Master Pembroke watched his halting, hiccupping screen, tapping it like that would help “What do you think?” he said to Minor Pembroke “can we proceed?”
“I don’t think so, not just yet sir. He is still smoothing the walls”
“Oh, the walls Minor, it’s always with the walls”
“But he needs to see, or feel that he is rubbing them smooth, alter his perception of time, let him know that this is the only real”
“Ok, I will defer to you then, but when does it just become, you know, cruel?”
“Have you your sash Sir?”
“No, I don’t … have you seen it?
“It’s right under your chin sir”
Fumbling his neck “Oh it is, it is right here, thank you Minor … such a funny thing … it was always right here wasn’t it?”
“You are always welcome Master. Now time to rest”
“Indeed Minor. I am a bit tired”
“How about we let Missive Pembroke here get you to bed?
“That would be nice”
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Thomas had dreamt again, all of his Thomas’s, the he’s and me’s and I’s and even the them’s, the one of the house, no, cottage, yes cottage with painted window flats, is that what they were called, of the one where it got closer, again, though seemingly imperceptible if anyone else were to witness or even join his dreams and go mad with him, all of the him’s, but they knew, he knew, that the grass was just a little taller, he could actually count the spokes on the cart now and the former blur in the window now had eyes and blue, no, brown hair.
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“C’mon Thomas time to wake and take you for your walk”
This Missive Pembroke was different from the others, the ones that beat him and made him make promises he didn’t understand, even signed in blood sometimes on paper they wouldn’t allow him of his own, and she was taller too, tall enough that she wouldn’t need a ladder or even a simple stool in the orchard for an apple. He found himself, all of his selves liking her, though he realized it was most probably that she just didn’t beat him or ask of him things. She just put him to bed and then, lifetimes later, would wake him for his walk.
“Take your time Thomas” she said with genuine patience and an even seeming care, this is where the bruises and even blood would come with the others if he wasn’t spry enough. He didn’t know what he had done, or hadn’t done, to deserve this new Missive Pembroke but it, she, was most welcome.
“Thank you”
“Did you sleep well?”
“You know we did not”
“Sorry Thomas”
“What? What? WHAT?!! Apologies, the others are demanding me to ask if you have name?”
“Yes, it’s Missive Pembroke of course”
“No, What? WHAT!!?? I’m getting to it … sshussh … no, an actual name. You surely had a mother? A one who called you something, even just in the fleeting early moment, something coy and cute, just between she and you?”
“I don’t know what you mean Thomas”
“(Sigh) it’s just that you call us Thomas, and so sweetly, but all I can call you is Missive. It just seems so … we don’t know … so distant, so impersonal”
“But I am not distant Thomas, I am right here, is my name really a matter?”
“No, you’re right Missive Pembroke, you are right here and that’s all that matters and blah, blah, blah (all the while all his selves went to the cottage in search) blah, blah, blah, blah …”
“Wow, you are quite chatty this morning Thomas”
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah (then, suddenly, one of his me’s, his him’s, found a two-wheel in the ever talling grass, a one they knew for some reason, a one that had a name scratched name on it’s body, like with a nail or a sharp sprig) Ok … Lilly?”
The Missive stopped short, taken aback, she hackled suddenly “what did you say!?”
Thomas flinched, scrunched “What? I am sorry” and hemmed and hawed while all his Me’s scrambled for unified thought “I just thought we could go into the garden today … to maybe … maybe there are … Roses … yes Roses there, or Lilies, Daffodils maybe too, something to smell in a bit of our suns new third”
The Missive shrunk the hackles “Yes, Thomas, that would be nice and is a fine idea, there are Roses there and Daffodils and even Petunias, so pretty right about now as you say, in this third”.
All of the Thomas’s noted that she didn’t say Lilies.
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