It’s a short drive from where you are to Crazy, Utah, which does not exist, but for the purpose of this blog entry, let’s pretend that there is such a place. When a person “goes Crazy”, he or she leaves reality and floats or rockets into another place that sane people all agree is not reality. Reality dwellers know what time it is, what day it is, and where they are. They don’t believe things that no one else believes, things that are thought to be impossible, like Angelina Jolie telepathically communicating her desire for me each night at 9:10 p.m. EST. I mean, it could happen, but most rational folks would agree that she is not doing this any longer, especially since I have outed her in this format. So there you go, Angie. Tell your therapist about that.
Reality-based people cling to scientifically provable stuff and what is written in big newspapers and most of what CNN reports as news. They understand when “Fly Me to Moon” plays at a wedding, it is not a lover’s real command or request; no, reality dwellers are so sophisticated that they can also operate in figurative and metaphorical language, a sort of nonreality that is still permissible within the rules of reality. They know somehow that the vocalist is expressing an impossible wish for his or her lover to sweep him or her off their feet emotionally and most likely sexually as well. In this construction the moon is a place of wonder, a nirvanic utopia where lovers visit periodically when their passion swells to tsunami wave strength. Whew! It’s getting tiresome just trying to lay out one side of the sanity railroad track.
Sane people are not allowed to hallucinate either, unless they are having a mystical religious experience or a temporary flight from reality fueled by a drug. Again, the sanity rule book (DSM-IV TR, which looks like Soviet Missile hieroglyphics) allows for some periodic, explainable lapses in continuous reality. However, if you stay at the rave too long, you must move to another chapter of the rule book– psychotic disorders.
Welcome to Crazy, Utah. Population unknown.
In my town we have four psychotic folks that regularly show up. I don’t know any one of them well. They are hard to get to know for obvious reasons. They are schizophrenic at least. One fellow is paranoid. Unfortunately for the local reality dwellers he is built like a Marine drill sargeant. He stalks about town, screams at light poles and passing cars. You don’t want to walk behind him or make eye contact with him because he will begin a paranoid rant, as I found out when I had to walk behind him down an alley to the mailbox on Main Street. He whirled around on me, as I predicted he would.
“I’m put together like Bruce Lee and I can bring it. You’ve seen my movies, right? Don’t mess with me!” followed by a string of profanities.
I used my reality dweller skills and ignored him. I just imagined it was bad customer service at a fast food joint or a scene from Black Friday at Wal Mart, where somewhat sane shoppers turn on each other like lab rats on cocaine and fight over Barbie dolls or I-pods. Just another scene from a weird movie… which is where Mr. Lee dwells.
One day he opened up the local coffee shop door and screamed at no one in particular a word salad of obscenities in a raging voice. He likely believed that the coffee shop crowd were talking about him negatively. Jake told me that everyone froze during his rant, including Jake. Then the guy slammed the door and went on to confuse others on the town square. Fortunately Mr. Lee does not follow up his verbal aggression with physical aggression. His path is the other rail of the sanity railroad. Maybe medication can connect him with the holy rail of reality that runs parallel to his path. Maybe not.
Saint Guy putters around like a holy Irish saint. He wears religious articles and engages in goofy conversations with very soft hearted locals. He makes puns and jokes with patient people, but he is mostly using the other person like a puppet in his own monologue. At Tito’s Mexican Restaurant and Store one night he bought six bottles of shampoo and was wearing down the sweet hearted cashier with his monologue. When I got behind him in line, he engaged me.
“Did you know that the television crew were on the square today? Yeah, they were covering something newsy. Security issues. Homeland security. I think they installed listening devices in the Ben Franklin statue on top of the courthouse. Probably recording this conversation right now.”
I excused myself, didn’t want to be recorded. Like the old saying in real estate, “The three most important factors in real estate? Location, location, location.” I walked back to my office muttering, “Medication, medication, medication.”
The last two schizophrenics are solitary pacers. One is a 40ish guy who walks briskly every day in an east/west pattern. The kids in town used to call him “Cockroach”. The other pacer is a late 30’s woman who walks north/south generally. Both are thin, no wonder. The guy wears big industrial yellow mittens and a knit hat in all weather. The woman mutters and swears at people who are not there. I’ve often wondered what their world is like, what thoughts they think in their solitary power walks. If they have moments of focused Reality, Pennsylvania or if they always reside in Crazy, Utah.
Wherever you are, Blogito, it’s a short drive to Crazy, Utah. Just ask Ben Franklin or Bruce Lee, if you dare.