{"id":11869,"date":"2021-07-16T10:39:33","date_gmt":"2021-07-16T09:39:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cassandravoices.com\/?p=11869"},"modified":"2021-07-16T10:39:33","modified_gmt":"2021-07-16T09:39:33","slug":"the-daymaker","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/2021\/07\/16\/the-daymaker\/","title":{"rendered":"The Daymaker"},"content":{"rendered":"

For my Aunt Josie.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Mamma died today, last year, at this very hour. I took care of her \u201cLike an angel,\u201d she would say, and I would never cry within her sight, nor anywhere in earshot, so that, at her funeral, and she died on the eve of her fortieth birthday, my eyes felt like eternal springs.<\/p>\n

Earlier this morning, after Dr. Dziurdzy had just signed my Weekend Pass, I strode a mile to the mall where I buy blue roses, and a bouquet in hand, descended the stairs of the Hamilton Mountain. From there, I pressed on, a pied, all the way to The Holy Sepulchre Cemetery. I only stopped at Sassoon\u2019s Cafe, just before the James Street Bridge \u2013 to make Mamma a card.<\/p>\n

Across from me, in the form of a marble statue of herself signed by Michelangelo, sat St Dhymphna. Typically, whenever we\u2019ve completed an exchange, and it is time for us to part, she lingers with me a while, in one form or another, once even, as the lily-like scent of her long flaxen hair, perhaps to stave my loneliness.<\/p>\n

It was so sweltering in Sassoon\u2019s caf\u00e9 that I swear I saw some sweat-beads glisten on St. Dymphna\u2019s smooth marble brow. A barista fanned herself with the menu, placing before me my caf\u00e9 au lait. She sighed over her shoulder at the young man sitting stiffly in one of the booths, wearing a camouflaged hat. I surmised him to be \u201c the soldier\u201d St. Dymphna had mentioned to anticipate, \u201cthe soldier who resembles your father in that photo of him in the viridian shirt \u2013 the one where he barely resembles himself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Like other frequenters of Sassoon\u2019s Caf\u00e9, the soldier was in mid-conversation; but what bothered the barista was that the seat he faced was empty.\u00a0 In his white t-shirt, gray dress pants, and black Wallabees, he placed before him, on the table for two, an open notebook and what appeared to be an emerald-green fountain pen.\u00a0 The soldier wore a week-old beard so handsomely I wondered if that was his intention; I wondered if it was a look he was going for, or if he simply did not shave that often. Beyond the notebook, and farthest from him, lay his laptop, closed and recharging.<\/p>\n

\u201cSend one platoon west, and one platoon south; over,\u201d he ordered, after which, for about ten seconds, he seemed to listen attentively to a response, carefully, his eyes barely blinking, but dilated; then, he continued his orders. The barista, with hands contrived on hips, took three steps, robotically stopped, then glared down at the soldier. With calculated firmness, she coldly stated:<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me, Sir. I\u2019m afraid, I\u2019m going to have to\u2026Ask you to leave\u201d<\/p>\n

A loaded silence reigned in the room.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, exactly?\u201d asked the soldier.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do I have to go?\u201d<\/p>\n

Again the barista glared down at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d he demanded of her for the third time, after some intense silence.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019ve been complaints. More than one. About your\u2026behaviour.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy behaviour?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the silence of Sassoon\u2019s, that soldier and I simultaneously stood up. We were moving slower than two war-weary battle-horses who had once galloped wild. Lifeless as ping-pong balls, all eyes in Sassoon\u2019s Cafe bounced between the soldier and me.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Avi Baxter,\u201d said the soldier with warmth, to the entire room.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Sir. But you have to go.\u201d continued the barista. \u201cMy manager makes the calls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the manager?\u201d asked Avi.<\/p>\n

The barista nodded toward the kitchen\u2019s swinging door, and from behind it the manager could be heard yelling.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve called the police!\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019d been leaning on a pillar, but now facing Avi, I stood at attention.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Carlo, Carlo Di Carra,\u201d I said to Avi, alone. And turning toward the barista, \u201cLeave him alone. He\u2019s done nothing wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have a Thursday edition of the Hamilton Spectator?\u201d asked Avi, peering hard at the newspaper piles. \u201cI\u2019m in no condition to defend myself, cause I\u2019m in and out, so\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

The barista didn\u2019t answer, but I darted toward the bunch of newspapers to locate the Thursday edition.<\/p>\n

\u201cAvi, here it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, Carlo.<\/p>\n

Anticipating the police, for a few moments I looked outside the window. When I turned around, Avi\u2019s pupils were dilated again. In a tone as solemn as it was dolorous, he whispered a few words I couldn\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n

\u201cAvi,\u201d I said. \u201cAvi?\u2019 I repeated, but he didn\u2019t respond.<\/p>\n

I looked outside and back at Avi, whose eyes were now serene.<\/p>\n

\u201cCould you please open the newspaper to A2?\u201d Avi asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n

Opening the newspaper, there before me was a large picture of Avi in military fatigues. I showed the article around, from table to table, ensuring everyone could see the published picture of the very veteran among us. Avi stepped toward me.<\/p>\n

\u201cCould you please read the article out loud? Cause, like I said, I\u2019m in and out these days. I\u2019d be forever grateful to you, Good Samaritan.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was no time to answer, since the police were on their way. So I launched straight into the article:<\/p>\n

\u201cThe headline reads: The Language of Madness: A Conversation with Avi Lyon Baxter. Written by Kimberly Stone.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOver coffee, I asked acclaimed Hamilton poet, Avi Lyon Baxter, 27, questions regarding literature, politics, and family, but it was when I asked him about the effects of warfare, that Baxter seemed most engaged, most ardent, and most poignant. \u2018The years of warfare triggered what my doctor calls schizoaffective disorder, which runs in my family. I also suffer from PTSD.\u2019 Baxter has been hospitalized for his conditions several times; during his admissions, he became acquainted with what he calls \u2018the culture of the patients,\u2019 and also \u2018the struggle of the patients.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I stopped for a moment and looked up at Avi. He\u2019d slipped into another trance.<\/p>\n

\u201cThrough our conversation, a polarity arose. That of language as a saviour for those suffering from severe mental illnesses, like in Baxter\u2019s case, and language as a dehumanizing force that is inflicted, often unknowingly, on the psychotically ill. \u2018Too often, those who consider themselves politically correct loosely use words like psycho, nutjob, and crazy. Now, hear me: I think freedom of speech should reign supreme. I am against language policing, since I believe it divides people, as it is designed to do. Yet, at the same time, I have a huge problem with the hypocrisy.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThe hypocrisy is that of how the so-called politically correct treat various groups in routine language, and the discrepancies in political correctness. While they treat many demographics with sensitivity, like people of the LGBT community for instance, the language of mental illness and, Baxter notes, specifically psychotic disorders, continues to colour their conversational speech. \u2018If policing language, shouldn\u2019t that extend sensitivity to anyone who needs it, not just to those dictated by a biased media?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWhile I wouldn\u2019t recommend injecting offensive terms into one\u2019s vocabulary to correct the imbalance, those who do choose to be mindful of political correctness might consider how they cherry-pick which terms to be mindful of, and the message they\u2019re sending to those left out of their apparently progressive dialogue.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cBaxter says the effect is that many of those who suffer from psychotic disorders \u2018feel like people treat them as sub-humans.\u2019 Especially in the context of individuals whose own minds are often frightening places for them, having others in society express to them, through their word choice, that their condition does not warrant sensitivity, is further dehumanizing.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018There\u2019s no safe space for them,\u2019 laments Baxter. \u2018If you have been granted equality you have not received it. If you want equality, you must take it. True equality is something taken, never given.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Here I paused and peered into the faces of the caf\u00e9 customers and out the window. No police.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy should we care? Well, because the connection between mental illness and creativity is not just one founded on an outlet for suffering. There is also an innate relationship between mental illness and creative genius, and this combination has historically brought great works of art, and important inventions of many kinds, into the world. The image of the brooding or unhinged artist has merit beyond the stereotype.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cBaxter explains, \u2018there is an infinitesimally fine line between madness and genius since, recently, scientists have proven that the two share a similar genetic makeup, called Neuregulin 1. We revere and adore Van Gogh, Nash, Plath, Schumann, Beethoven, Cobain, Hemingway, Pound, Nelligan, Blake, and other great minds affected by mood disorders or schizophrenia. We love our mad geniuses. We\u2019re eager to take their gifts, but we most often reject the very illness that spawned the gift, and thereby reject the person.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

A lump rose in my throat and I wanted to cry, but resisted my instinct. I searched everyone\u2019s eyes, none of which were holding back tears, none of which shone with the dimmest twinkle.<\/p>\n

Confronted with an aura of indifference in the room, Ari\u2019s eyes welled up before closing as he took a deep breath. I too took a deep breath. But when my head bowed the way an iris\u2019s bloom will, when weighed down by too many dew drops, my eyes were open and staring at the image of Ari, printed on the page.<\/p>\n

\u201cThose with the combined traits of creativity and psychiatric instability who can harness and channel them into careers are the fortunate ones, who were able to take challenging life states, and make from them a thing of beauty to share with the world. However, these are, more than likely, the people you avoid on the street, or snicker at on the bus, as they grapple with untreated psychotic symptoms.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cBaxter\u2019s critically hailed debut book of poems, The Flowers of My Battles, became a bestseller in both Canada and the United States. The book won both the Governor General Award For Poetry and the T.S. Eliot Prize. He is currently nominated for a Trillium Award, the gala of which will be held this fall. In The Walrus magazine, critic and poet Dylan Yardly called Baxter\u2019s debut \u2018the greatest poetry debut of the past 25 years. Baxter is perhaps the most commanding and relevant war poet since Wilfred Owen.\u2019 Last year he was awarded the Medal of Sacrifice, for his brave fighting during the War in Afghanistan.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThough often debilitated, Baxter has established a career that allows him to share his insight, and lend his voice to others struggling with mental illness, so many of whom are silenced rather than celebrated.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I savoured that article to the extent I could, while all around me, a palpable aura of indifference persisted. When I checked on Baxter, he was beyond reach. Pupils dilated and tears streaming down his cheeks. That\u2019s when, through the window, I spotted two police cruisers pull up and park.<\/p>\n

By the time both officers entered Sassoon\u2019s, Saint Dymphna\u2019s presence, manifested in the form of a marble statue had, alas, vanished. Avi was consumed by one of his hallucinations. And as for me, I encountered the kind of anxiety a blue iris must, when its growth flourishes from the protection of a private garden, to project out onto the unsympathetic surface of a well-traveled urban sidewalk. Mind you, unaccompanied by any other backyard blue irises and at the mercy of the masses.<\/p>\n

Or was it more that loneliness two horses might feel when, without warning, their riders steer them away from each other. Often so fast that neither has a chance to neigh good-bye.\u00a0 Avi and I stood side by side. Solid as two pillars. Sympatico as high-school students passing doobies around a fire-pit party.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd, furthermore, I bet you\u2019ve been completely off your meds?\u201d continued the first officer, who wore short sleeves.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow listen, Avi.\u201d began the second officer, who wore long sleeves, \u201cI sympathize with you, for real. I\u2019m saddened as hell by your tears. And I get why having to leave this caf\u00e9 may be troublesome for you, but it is time to go now. One way or another.\u201d<\/p>\n

The officers made eye-contact. As did Avi and I. On Baxter\u2019s table, a book lay open to pages 33 and 34. It was The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke, and next to it was Disabled, by Wilfred Owen.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you really want us using force to get you out of this place?\u201d asked the first officer.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you really want to rip away the integrity of a veteran?\u201d I interjected.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m warning you, Boy. Shut it!\u201d exclaimed the first officer. \u201cAre you gonna leave this place peacefully, on your own, or do you want to be taken out of here violently, by two cops? Which would most certainly be bad for your integrity, too.\u201d the first officer demanded of Avi.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe don\u2019t want to have to call C.O.A.S.T. on you. You\u2019re well aware that C.O.A.S.T. will cuff you. And drag you straight to St. Joe\u2019s for psychological assessment. Oh, and then, they\u2019ll<\/p>\n

send you for a grand ole stay at the Mountain Sanatorium.\u201d pressed the second officer.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is C.O.A.S.T.?\u201d I had to inquire.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a\u2026Well, it\u2019s a special police unit that comes around collecting the crazies. You know, psychopaths and such. So they can go to the hospital for …For treatment or whatever the fuck.\u201d hissed the second officer to me, so Avi couldn\u2019t hear. Anyway, Avi had zoned out again.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh…but what does C.O.A.S.T. stand for?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cCrisis Outreach And Support Team,\u201d officer one said with a smirk.<\/p>\n

At that, Avi\u2019s head drooped like a raindrop burdened daisy blooming on a starless, moonless night. Moments later, Avi raised his head. He gathered his materials and gripping his satchel, pivoted like a ship points to a lighthouse to lock eyes with me.<\/p>\n

The two of us paused in a dilapidated and vacant parkette, where we were surrounded by spiralling lilies shedding their wealth of pure white petals in the morning sunlight.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your name, again?\u201d Avi asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cCarlo Di Carra,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow old are you, Son?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNineteen.\u201d<\/p>\n

A warm wind wafted.<\/p>\n

\u201cCarlo, I feel a strange paroxysm of utmost thankfulness toward you, and utmost loathsomeness toward them.\u201d That said, he spat into a nearby patch of grass, \u201cYou showed me more support in ten minutes than most people have shown me in ten years, and so: SALUTE! Salute to you! Salute to the mercy you shared with me! Salute to you, the Stranger\u2019s angel!\u201d Then, forthwith, his eyes dilated into a thousand-mile stare, while he commenced. \u201cNo, Sergeant, I am not a coward. I\u2019m just human. There are civilians in that building. I cannot open fire as you have just ordered, Sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then…<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! No! Stop pointing that at me, Sergeant! Please, Sir! Okay! Okay! Okay!\u201d Avi screamed. Then he started aiming his invisible machine gun, whose trigger he repeatedly pulled, until finally, he emerged from his fugue.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnyway Carlo, as I was saying, SALUTE to you, Salute to you and your blood of love!\u201d<\/p>\n

After Carlo finished his exclamatory salutations, he paused, then started: \u201cMy will to electrify the Patients Movement is hella stronger now that I\u2019ve endured what happened today .Thank God for this shock I feel. Which will, I hope, continue to numb me from the memory of what we witnessed in Sassoon\u2019s Caf\u00e9. I must affix and delight in the numbness that a proper shock provides. Wretchedly, must I revel in an inner glade which exists between my… self, <\/em>and what has occurred. Yes, the dictatorship of the psychiatric patient will be commandeered so much sooner now.\u00a0 Do you, by chance, believe in God?\u201d<\/p>\n

Yes, very much so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd do you believe Jesus of Nazareth to be the Messiah?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. I do.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOk. In the name of Jesus of Nazareth, swear that you will never repeat anything I\u2019m saying here. Promise me. In his name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI swear, in the name of Jesus Christ, that I will not repeat anything you are saying here.\u00a0 I promise. In His name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSay this: May I go straight to Hell if I repeat anything Avi Lyon Baxter tells me in this lilied parkette near James Street North\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMay I go straight to Hell if I repeat anything Avi Lyon Baxter tells me in this lilied parkette near James Street North.\u201d<\/p>\n

Avi sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the name of my own vengeance to a world that treats me as a sub-species. In the name of what I think is right and essential. In the name of any and all oppressed psychotics, the Psychiatric System will be dismantled and rebuilt. From within and without. There will be both predetermined and spontaneous uprisings at St Joe\u2019s, and<\/em> there will be simultaneous intifadas coordinated inside the world\u2019s most prominent psychiatric institutions. In all three arenas, our revolution<\/em> will detonate simultaneously and worldwide!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen the revolution<\/em>, or shall we refer to it as The Rev?<\/em> At any rate, under its own steam, the movement will spread to other sanatoriums like pollen does. In a vigorous wind. To neighbouring towns. All insurgents bound by sheer conviction to The Rev. To a common list of demands. Rights refrained, again and again, by ambassadors representing the revolution. And in these aforementioned, simultaneous, pre-plotted intifadas, guerrilla patients will take fellow guerrilla patients, hostage, consensually of course. Both hostage and hostage-taker will shadow each other into dual defense from our enemy. And, the revolutionaries, from Port-Au-Prince to Toronto, will be disciplined to shoot our enemies: security guards, soldiers, and officers. Below the waist<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy cugino,<\/em> Armando, a made guy who lives in Palermo, will arm our rebels. And may very well agree to advance us, in solidarity, whatever we need. See, he\u2019s been hospitalized. Numerous times. For schizophrenia. He can fathom our marginalization.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re half-Italian. On your mother\u2019s side, I\u2019m assuming?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Avi replied. \u201cListen, Carl\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Carlo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCarlo, please. <\/em>Don\u2019t interrupt my precarious stream of consciousness. It\u2019s the sole palisade between me and that trauma-induced platoon following me even as we speak.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so sorry, Avi. Forgive me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Avi nodded his head, even smiling slightly.\u00a0 It had been a relatively long respite since he\u2019d fallen into a fugue.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t wait to blow up the bubble rooms! To terrify the snakes of The System. Homicidal doctors signing off on premature discharges. Knowing full well they\u2019ll end their lives thereafter! Rapist nurses fondling their way out of the night-room rounds. All of whom we will kidnap and try in a court presided over by psychotics!<\/p>\n

Our ransom for the prisoners will be a list of demands, including but not limited to:<\/p>\n

1) Swift implementation of a law worded as follows: That to be granted a psychiatric license, doctors must score in the top percentile on a standardized emotional intelligence test.<\/p>\n

2) Food service and accomodation to be modernized and upgraded so as to adhere to hospitality standards.<\/p>\n

3) Establishment of a fund dedicated to the disbursal of victim reparations, and immediate handover of similar criminals currently working under the evil administration, regardless of rank.<\/p>\n

4) Definitive discharges for select patients, such as political prisoners, for example.<\/p>\n

5) Smoking priviliges and designated areas for doing so to be reinstated.<\/p>\n

6) Redistribution of psychiatric authority, via the Vortex Accords initiated by me last summer.<\/p>\n

7) Pass executive orders composed by me on my bus ride to Montreal last year.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo be elaborated. Just so long as that list of demands can wrap my soul\u2019s wide wound, like a bandage, the way forward seems somewhat possible. I\u2019ll not, like a mummy, lie petrified inside the tomb that is my basement bedroom. If even a few of the uprisings succeed, the world would suddenly know the patients\u2019 collective power, now wouldn\u2019t they? Who would ever fuck with us again, if we executed what I\u2019ve just proposed? Yes, us.<\/em> Do you think I cannot see that you are struggling with your own psychosis? Who would still suppose the diagnosed<\/em> insane are wholly powerless? We will assume our equality, which is the only way we can truly receive it. And the world, even the blasted, double-edged mass media, will finally see that we will no longer tolerate being abused, raped, and used by our own so-called \u2018caretakers.\u201d Shamed, despite the fact that it is we who open the doors of invention for humanity.\u201d<\/p>\n

One glance at Avi\u2019s eyes, twinkling as they were with zeal, and I saw his essential place in the universe.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see a Million Man March of the mad!\u201d Avi exclaimed. \u201cAnd, as for the aforementioned Patient\u2019s Revolution, I will recruit guerrilla-patients from the many online psych ward whisper networks. Plus, I\u2019ll recruit my friends from Mad Pride, who know it is impossible for a person to be proud of one\u2019s self, when not only openly, directly and indirectly, being discriminated against, but also scorned, mocked, hated, abused, mistrusted, beaten, and murdered.\u201d<\/p>\n

Avi jolted, his mind seemingly struck by sheet lightning of afflatus, which is better than being struck by the vipers of his traumas. Again, he shook off the fog that dogged him to refocus anew.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou see, Carlo, not only will the psych world be faced with the patient\u2019s revolution, but so will anyone outside the system. Who treats us as a subspecies. Who thinks we are not worth as much as the so-called sane.<\/em> And that means a whole lot of motherfucking people. And they will answer to us. To the insurgents.<\/p>\n

\u201cReports of rape, assault, degradation, and other forms of ill treatment occurring in the Sanatorium never<\/em> reach the minds of the masses. More and more mental health activists are therefore going underground. Radicalizing into revolutionaries. It is time for the Patients\u2019 Revolution.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll seek out like-minded patients. O Carlo! O Patients! Hear my voice! We must leap from our closets, lest too many of us die by our own world-guided hand, to explode upon the world that jeers us! Like, who really cares about patient rights and their little lives? How many<\/p>\n

souls are suffering downtown in the streets, alleys, and alcoves; poor, dilapidated, \u2018vile bodies\u2019 for whom no one weeps.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd so, now with intifada\u2019s force, at last, at last, at last, the \u2018Ship of fools,\u2019 will dock at the Bay of Honour and Equality. At last, at last, at last, the \u2018ship of fools,\u2019 captained by revolving \u2018crazies,\u2019 will barge between the large and empty yachts of the fogless harbour, to crash ashore this society that has exiled us. At last, at last, at last, this listing and trimming of the ship will end and, for the first time, we will stand stable upon sturdy earth. This will be our Santa Clara!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe hospital will soon be ours! A guerrilla unit of eighty patients! The world will know the patients\u2019 powers! Viva la revoluci\u00f3n de los pacientes!<\/em>\u201d Avi yawped, so the whole parkette could hear, though no one, besides us, was there. \u201cViva-a-a-a-a!\u201d Avi bellowed, the echo of his voice blasting beyond the boundaries of the parkette.\u201d<\/p>\n

Remember, you promised never to repeat anything I\u2019ve said. Will you keep your promise?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will keep my promise because none of this can ever happen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell are you saying, on?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you see? If you do what you have planned, you will only FURTHER the divide, the apartheid, between those presumed sane and those diagnosed insane.\u00a0 Avi, you will sow hatred in the hearts of the \u201cInsane,\u201d and shame in the minds of the \u201csane\u201d.\u00a0 Your idea is an understandable but regrettable one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh really? Well what the fuck are you going to do about it, Carlo?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI want you to make a deal with me. A pact.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the fuck are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are going to make a deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA deal?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Look, I\u2019ll, I\u2019ll\u2026\u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAri, I\u2019ll take away your illness if you promise not to carry out the Patients\u2019 Revolution.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d asked an almost ferocious Avi.<\/p>\n

Taking great strides, he headed for the gates of the parkette. That is until I caught up to him, and stopped Avi from leaving. I convinced him to return within the parkette, where we had been talking, among the still spiraling lilies.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease explain to me what the hell you mean by proposing this pact. Like, what the fuck are you talking about, Son?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cListen, Avi. Inside that eerie bedlam by the bluffs, you could clean that place with all its tears, I struggle to fathom who I am. Rest assured, I\u2019m going somewhere. So, anyway, check this out. I was born on Christmas Day, my mother on the Summer Solstice.\u00a0 My Father was born on an Easter Sunday morning.\u00a0 My father\u2019s name, numerically, equals 137; my mother\u2019s name, numerically, equals 137. I was raised on San Francisco Avenue, in the San neighbourhood, near the West Mountain Brow, where the streets are named after saints. The 33 Sanatorium bus still winds through these streets. It can be heard from my childhood home, at\u00a0number 1101.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThroughout my life, countless people have testified that I either; saved their souls, their minds, or their corporeal lives. In my boyhood, I endured a connective tissue disorder that ensured the onset of Pectus Excavatum, which means the malformation of cartilages, near my sternum. By age thirteen, this condition eventuated the grotesque caving in of my chest. An audible gasping for each breath deepened with every passing day. Gradationally, I was asphyxiating.<\/p>\n

And this body\u2019s hideousness couldn\u2019t have been more excruciating to my mind. Dashing what was left of my self-image, it spent my self-worth. To such an extent, that since I nearly never spoke, my nickname in high school became \u2018The Mute.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFor five years, not once did I smile, dragging myself through the days like a half blind horse too old to be drawing anything but air. At age eighteen, I underwent The Nuss Procedure<\/em>. That being an experimental operation, to possibly truss the excavatum into convexity. A one-foot-long, one-inch-thick, bowed steel bar, was forced through my right side, then inside my pulmonary cavity, converting asphyxiation to easy breathing, concavity to convexity, disfiguration to beauty. After a week of recovery, I was released from the hospital just in time to celebrate my nineteenth birthday. Where my right side was penetrated, the Nuss Procedure left a 3-inch-scar. One still very visible.\u201d<\/p>\n

Raising the hem of my shirt, I showed Avi the scar on my side.<\/p>\n

\u201cEarlier this year I heard what identified itself as being \u2018The Voice of the Father from the Three Personned God.\u2019 He said…Well, what he said was this; that I would be henceforth transmuting into a secret being, whose identity I too, alas, would not know until my absolute transfiguration. Sublime and vivacious, this voice disclosed that I\u2019d soon be in the hospital healing patients. It said that seraphim would shield me from demons. That soon, as I should be, I\u2019d sermonize to the patients unfettered. And that I\u2019d never have to worry about corporeal repercussions for voicing the Truth. For voicing His Vision. My family hospitalized me when I insisted this had been a direct correspondence with God.\u201d<\/p>\n

On this note, I paused, taking a couple of breaths.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was actually the morning of that massive storm, and just after one of my hour-long sermons, that the coda of The Voice was transmitted through me to the patients. We took shelter from the elements beneath a red-roofed smoking pavilion. It had been downpouring from tenebrous clouds for an hour and a half. Amid seemingly inexhaustible lightning which struck its riled electric vipers in such a way as to block our path. In these conditions we, who were out on passes, were waiting for the wind-whipped rain to cease, so that we could return to our respective wards.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich is when we were startled to see two demoniacs burst upon us, in blurs of wide spasmodic movements preternaturally generated by the notable force of the Devil. Screaming immeasurably discordant baritones, the rabid youths raged and rived the restless crowd, both asserting their Latin as petrifying as it was precise. At last, they alighted on the pavilion\u2019s long picnic table. Forthwith, I shot toward the two youths, each foaming and seizing till apparently exhausted from the merciless exertion perpetuated by the power of the Devil himself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFirm, but calm, I lay my left hand on the one youth\u2019s head, and my right hand on the other. O Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ, the Saviour of us all, and the Son of the Living God, flee from these two boys at once! Flee from these two boys at once! Flee from these two boys at once! I tore my crucifix from my neck then, and with the force of the Holy Spirit inside me, pressed it into each of their chests, imprinting it over their hearts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust then, two shower-weary mountain vultures perched upon a nearby statue of some lofty lobotomist from the early 20th Century. At once, I cast, like two eternally long shadows, both demons, into the mountain vultures. The scavengers gyred higher and higher before zigzagging away to vanish over the cliff.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHowever, overtaken by a whirlwind of rain, the gyre reunited in a dance puppeteered by ever greater gales, till both mountain vultures were at last, simultaneously slammed headlong into the cliff\u2019s vertiginous summit. Lingering in the moments left of their lives, their miserable necks and bones were as blasted and shattered as is humankind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe two youths lay exhausted and unconscious on the picnic table. Lightning still struck everywhere around our pavilion. Even striking the stone body of the lobotomist. The lampposts were so tipped, it was as if\u00a0 we were starring in an early expressionist movie. And whirlwinds whisked uprooted saplings heavenward, only to drop them back to the earth. Alas, the patients were ripped about, one to unconsciousness. A wind whipped woman wearing white screamed, \u2018Make it stop!\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s when, driven by the Holy Spirit, I leapt out into the gales, the rain and all that lightning, to lift my arms like a ladder, into the chaos of a spewing sky. O Lord in Heaven, hear this prayer. Please Dear God, put to death this pitiless storm! And within 3 minutes, the colossal storm concluded. Lightning lessened, gale calmed to wind and in the end, became but a breeze.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome of the patients panted, while others sprinted from the pavilion to the Sanatorium doors. Staggered as they were, I shadowed the patients swiftly striding ahead for what took about thirty seconds, after which we found ourselves bone dry. Only a drizzle resumed, during our dash back to the sanatorium doors. The rumour spread that I had dried a downpour, dismantled the wind, and annihilated lightning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe following day, some patients accosted me. \u2018Might I heal their minds of illness? Would I lay my hands upon their heads?\u2019 They had come to believe I possessed powers, that I was a channel, a vessel if you will, of the Lord. His mercy. And His words. \u2018I will,\u2019 was the only answer, as then I remembered what the Voice told me before my hospital admission.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLaying my hands upon their heads, many reported they were healed; I was quite efficacious in exorcism, and at healing depressives and drug addicts. Some said they believed themselves healed, but only when my hands were upon them. More and more patients approached me expressing a vehement desire to be healed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was released, readmitted, released, and readmitted again, eventually seeing a need to disremember the plausible miracles under my belt, along with deep wonderment about my identity, all of which exhausted the high spirit inside me. In a world where soulfulness is scrubbed from people like mildew, miracles are seen as absurd to all.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, on the evening of Holy Thursday Evening this year, after having wept for Christ, in particular I\u2019d envisioned Judas\u2019 betrayal and Jesus\u2019 arrest, having seen Zeffirelli\u2019s Jesus of Nazareth. My prayer to The Lord pleaded, \u2018I do not know who or what I am. Can you please tell me? Give me a clear sign, even though my transfiguration is incomplete? After praying, I fell asleep.And on Good Friday I awoke to a piercing pain in my right side. It was coming from the place where the Nuss Procedure was performed. Where I still have the scar.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs if I\u2019d been stabbed, the throb in my right side was so severe, that I screamed out to the patients who slept in my room, amid miserable throes. Via electro-magnetic vibrations, a seraphim paid me a visit, to stress that by Monday Morning, my stigmata would fade and disappear. At which time the piercing in my side ceased.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAvi, isn\u2019t it true that you have been less \u2018in and out,\u2019 and more focused, than you were when we met at the caf\u00e9?\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t respond. Instead, he started whistling Rachmaninoff\u2019s Prelude in C Sharp Minor with his eyes closed, his face not tense as it was when we were in the caf\u00e9.<\/p>\n

\u201cI believe you, Carlo. And yes, I have been more present and more focused than when we met at the caf\u00e9. What\u2019s happening?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cListen, together you and I will start the Psychiatric Reformation, and apart, will never <\/em>resort to revolution. Listen, you are slowly healing.\u00a0 But this <\/em>will speed up the process.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI lay my cupped hands on Avi\u2019s head, then prayed: \u201cO Jesus of Nazareth! O my Redeemer! O Prince of Peace! O violet eyelight-beamer! I feel your sea-sky horizoned lips softly kiss my spirit! O Almighty Taskmaster, please whisper this away. Sing Avi\u2019s madness to death. Tame his traumas until they die in anonymity as do the loneliest of winds at sea. As do the holiest of saints. As do those white and black Popes of the Vatican, reflected like a solar eclipse inside a yellow puddle of urine.\u00a0 O Lord, I\u2019d die for you as you have for me, so please. Please free this beauteous man, Avi Lyon Baxter. Free him from his tormenting traumas, O free him of his tormenting illness.\u00a0 Please, please heal him.\u201d<\/p>\n

I removed my hands from Avi\u2019s head. Avi threw himself onto the grass where in the diaphanous dew, he wept. For a moment which then passed, he knelt and his head bowed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you crying, Avi?\u201d I finally asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m healed,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n

Then, suddenly, he jolted to his feet as though amid a street fight for his life.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m healed! I\u2019m healed, do you hear me, Bello!\u201d he blasted, \u201cI don\u2019t hear voices anymore! The only voice outside me that I hear is my own echo, and the only voice inside me that I hear is my own! Carlo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Di-i-i-i-i-i-i Car-r-r-r-r-a! No, no wait! Santo-o-o-o-o-o-o-! Santo Carlo Di Carra! I like the sound of that!\u201d Avi smiled widely in the warm wind.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

CooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo!<\/em> CooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo! <\/em>call the mourning doves. Kneeling at Mamma\u2019s grave, and before arranging the flowers, first I spread the babies\u2019 breath I bought to festoon her tombstone. Over the past year, I\u2019ve gotten attached to the cemetery\u2019s resident doves. Their call is a sound that soothes my soul. I coo right along with them and in doing so, fail to fight back the fierce tears flowing. Droplets that are falling down. All over those brand-new blue roses.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Like a couturier\u2019s thread through the eye of a needle, I entered the revolving doors of the\u00a0Sanatorium. High on it\u2019s hill, I was out on our ward\u2019s terrace, when I painted a watercolour called \u201cOne Blue Rose.\u201d I posted a high pixel photograph of the $1,500 dollar painting, to the website of an online art gallery. It wasn\u2019t five minutes before I received a notice on my phone, that a former buyer of mine had purchased the piece.<\/p>\n

Mamma relished a rose of any colour. But blue roses most of all. Because they were her mother\u2019s<\/em> favourite. Grandma Maria adored blue roses because she was an amateur inventor. In her mind, blue roses were humanity\u2019s most ravishing invention.<\/p>\n

Mamma died today, last year, at this very minute.\u00a0 Through the diamond patterned bars of the terrace cage, I pray to her and sob. My head droops downward like the bough of a Weeping Willow. One that has endured an ice storm.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For my Aunt Josie. Mamma died today, last year, at this very hour. I took care of her \u201cLike an angel,\u201d she would say, and I would never cry within her sight, nor anywhere in earshot, so that, at her funeral, and she died on the eve of her fortieth birthday, my eyes felt like […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":253,"featured_media":11882,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[26],"tags":[2306,3262,5834,5838,5839,5840,8922],"class_list":["post-11869","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-daymaker","tag-fiction","tag-marc-di-saverio","tag-marc-di-saverio-canadian-writer","tag-marc-di-saverio-cassandra-voices","tag-marc-di-saverio-fiction","tag-the"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11869","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/253"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11869"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11869\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11869"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11869"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11869"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}