Dry Guillotine

In my childhood, "Verdun," meant madness.         Bars on the windows, cages around the intellect.         Time was a poor keeper of souls, it seems, wore out all but         a fragment of my memories. Musical, poetic. The sounds of clay china         being dropped on the floor. Fierce Celts with a gift for the muse in         keeping with their love of lyricism and war.         Driving by 999 Queen in Toronto accompanies a lot of the above.         A cuckoo bin by any calculation and a reference not meant to be         pejorative. A subject so clothed in solemnity only irreverent         "kidding," can hope to disarm its grasp. Still, the truth must be told.         In university, no one shrinked from whispering the ultimate fate -         a stint in Sydenham or a trip down the road to Cedar Springs.         Delightful euphemisms, the names reminiscent of sonorous rivers,         tree lined groves, peach blossoms across Georgia springs. Or         Ophelia's funeral oration wherein Polonius rightfully alludes to her         sudden falling away amid laughing brooks.         I am reminded of Charrire's desperate attempt to stay sane on Ile         du Dible, the cutting edge of his dry guillotine - his mind's fabric         giving way to the slightest irritation. In the present, the chant of         a crowd's "jump, jump," to the would be suicide. Then there is the         most foreboding type of all dementia, the collective sort. A strength         through joy movement of the Hitler camp with society's many         institutions set up along the spit and polish order of the Reich.         Indeed, if we think of it, we all have a deep knowledge of madness;         days when the centre is about to break alongside the pit. Days when         wars on the periphery take hold, colours appear different.         As a child, madness was watching Ichabod Crane in cartoon form         outrace the Headless Horseman. In Sleepy Hollow trying to put         down the panic in himself. Ichabod, the peaceful school master,         driven to the edge. At war with himself but trying to reassure that         same self the plodding sound of approaching hooves was only dried,         bullrush stems hitting against his head.         Madness is more than Van Gogh offering an ear; Druid priests         garnishing oak trees in a British forest or plaintive Gauguin         abandoning his family at 34, mid-stream in a successful career. It         probably stands behind half the men on skid row, beckons like a         welcome friend before turning fiend and consuming impulse to a         bag lady.         The close relation between the creative impulse and "letting go."         Between the arts and wide eyed eccentricity. Between wanting to be         free. And knowing. Hearing if you go on like that you'll end up on         the Lakeshore. Another pretty euphemism. A dangerous truth left         like an upturned rock for someone to trip on in another garden.         The farthest away anyone can be.