Psychoanalyze This is the artform equivalent of shock treatment. It is a work of dark fiction and should be regarded as precisely that.

Listen to Suggested Audio

Pixies “Where Is My Mind?”

Have you ever felt as though the entire world around you is one you have constructed in your head? A place which exists only to serve your sole purpose? And are you insane if you can recognize that you’re insane? Or is it, in fact, the sane who are certifiable? Can you believe all that you see? Rationalize it? Or do your fingertips bleed as you trace each fine detail? Are the winds of reason little more than a moderate gale? Can madness be measured on a reliable scale? Is sanity a veil that slips? Can you see right through it? Taste madness on your lips? How sick are your kicks and when is the next fix due? Does medication take the edge off? Or hedge bets over how long it will take to break you? When you wake, do you discern the jaybird’s sweet melody or a jailer’s off-key whistle and the jangle of iron keys? Would society approve of you doing precisely what you please?

Do you entertain homicidal tendencies? Have these gradually over time become dependencies? Is there an endless list of people you would enjoy disemboweling? Or do you have someone special in mind? And where is said mind? Solitary confinement? Taking early retirement? Suggestions deemed too vile to inquire of? Are bitter truths inconvenient? Or something of a turn on? Do you get aroused by road accidents? Apply brakes? Pull over? Step out of your vehicle? Survey the wreckage? Secretly yearn for a decapitation? Settle for a decent impalement? Or vacate the scene with a vague sense of disappointment when the coroner fails to show? Do obituaries tickle you? How many forts in the bone arena of your skull do you reserve for the things you love? Are there many people you’d miss if they were gone? And, if so, then for how long? Would you consider one week to be acceptable? Perhaps store their ashes in an ornate receptacle. Then scatter them next Tuesday. Won’t really matter where. Are you there yet? Interesting.

Does the mouth of your madness house a tongue? Can it speak for itself? Articulate clearly? Is there chaos to its theory? Should it raise a query, then will you be in a position to supply an answer? Or are you just as much in the dark? Do you like it there? What do you get up to in the shadows? Are you on first name terms with the dwellers within them? Or is your association more of a need to know affair? Is this the only place you feel accepted? The only place you feel seen? When was the last time you attempted to punt a soda can along a subway platform? Did you miss your train? Were you to cross the tracks, could you then turn back? Is there anywhere left to return to? What has the past done for you lately? Would you mourn it greatly if it disappeared under circumstances ever so vaguely suspicious? Request its permission before moving on? Seize the moment and apply a choke hold until such time as it bleeds from the eyes? Or simply keep on walking to the chimney?

How deep is your madness in fathoms? Ten thousand? Twenty? Was it always within or did the cuckoos come later? Could something have triggered it? Slackened the hinges? Loosened the screws? Confused you with someone who gives a damn when you just doled out your last fuck? Pressed down on your luck until your sternum cracked? Then provided you a good hard fuck right back. The old front to back, to be exact. Are they your vertebrae shattering or merely illusions? Does each contusion weep or are they all cried out? Is the tide out or is that feisty-looking wave tidal? Would now be a good time to switch those tendencies to the suicide side? To grab the nearest washed up seahorse and use the coral to sever your own jugular vein before drowning in currents of your own sorrow? You too could be washed up come tomorrow. Now there is a thought with a penny attached.

Speaking of attachment, do you have any unresolved childhood issues you haven’t addressed yet? Any stubborn skeletons rattling about in your closet? Do you glance anxiously over your shoulder when making an ATM deposit? Are the voices in your head cacophonic or do you find the phonics relax you? This one may tax you. Is the sum of your sadness greater than the square root of your madness? And, while the lights are on, are you aware of the Rorschach test? Tell us, what do you see?

Most interesting. Okay, moving briskly on – When nature attacks, do you grab the popcorn? When the matador gets snagged in his own cape and receives a free prostate examination courtesy of two raging bull horns, do you yell Olé? Do you find yourself playing “Der Fuehrer’s Face” by Spike Jones on perpetual loop while attempting to think of a solitary reason why the bloody hell you shouldn’t? Not to be pernickety but it was released in 1942 and was considered satirical then so what’s with the narrow eyes of suspicion?

Does taboo disconcert you or flirt with your bones of contention? Do any of these words hurt you and why do you think that is? Could it have something to do with the 20 micrograms of Dioxin my associate slipped into your aged gin prior to cin-cin? Could it be beginning to kick in? Would you have any objections if we were to redecorate while you’re out? Had nobody thought to mention we moonlight as interior designers? How does that make you feel? Oh, and before you go dropping off on that fine Italian leather couch, which of your kidneys would you miss least?

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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