“Hold me like a mother would
Like I always knew
Somebody should
Though tomorrow
It don’t look that good”

Daniel Johnston’s “Living Life“

I was walking through the gardens of the institution, holding a book I would not read and some flowers I picked up before passing through the door in hopes it would destroy the asylum’s ecosystem somehow; my perverse Midas touch, I was the dirty shoes in the houses built in the minds around me. They let me through the door because I told the security I needed to talk to the person in charge of the place that I would donate a lot of money because I related to their internet presence, because I liked their posts a lot. The reality, which was a coin of extreme value in this place, was that I had never even known they existed before this morning, and I don’t manage any of the social media profiles I have. The reality, which was water in this desert, had to dress my words in ways to make me unreachable; I needed to be sand that was never stone, otherwise, the wind and the rain might find me again, making me even smaller.

The doorman told me to go past the gardens and talk to a woman who would be in front of the door of the building, which was still a bit distant. He told the woman through his cellphone that I would be going to her, I thanked him. As I was in the middle of the pathway, tiny stone bricks chewed by nature’s feet where mine laid, I saw a man crouched staring at a flower. He seemed to be one of the crazy ones; his clothes were plain and he had that look on him. I had to get used to being around people like him, even though they creeped me out, so I approached him.

— What are you doing, friend? — I said, kneeling so to match his height at the moment.

— I am waiting for her! — He said, enthusiastically, but also whispering.

— The flower?

— Haha, yes!

I knew with what I was dealing with, but to be so close someone so lost… Even a person like me wished to give him a flashlight for his darkened vision. But perhaps, he is blinded by too much light, and a flashlight would only trouble him. What could I show his shuttered mind that wouldn’t be sand in wind? What could he see now that would mute his mind from the cascade cacklings, the waterfalls eroding the land?

— She is waiting for my response, too, you see? — He said.

— Why don’t you answer her? — I asked, trying to play along.

— I have.

— And why is she still waiting for your response?

— She is waiting for me to say what she wants to hear. What she doesn’t notice is that I have already said what I had to say. — He points to his head, as if he managed to crack an ancient code — She keeps checking up on me, trying to see if I’ll say something to her, you know?

— The flower?

— Why, yes, the flower! Who else?

— How does she… I mean, what does she want from you?

— I already told you! — Even though his language was impatient, he seemed happy someone was entertaining his ideas — She is waiting for me to say something, when I have already said what I wanted. She doesn’t realize that nothing else is coming out of me, understand?

— Then what are you doing by her side?

— Well, I’m waiting for her to understand that, yes! I’m waiting for what she has to say when she understands she is the one who needs to talk next.

Nothing made a lot of sense. He was very eloquent, barely even stuttered. Even though he moved a bit erratically, almost hugging me at times, I’ve seen men with similar minds and gestures late at night at Pedro’s bar in the 5^th street, drenched in alcohol and bad times. He didn’t seem too mad; as my grandfather used to say, he seemed like he just went fishing.

— What if she is waiting, too? — I grinned a bit.

— What?

— I mean, she seems pretty silent. What if she also thinks she has said what she had to say, and is waiting for you to realize that and talk to her?

His expression changed completely. As if he had received terrible news, he grieved with every muscle in his face, searching for a hole in the ground to cover his body and for the Sun to not be such a loud neighbor. I recognized that man’s grief; my hangovers were usually always broken by a picture frame over here or an old love letter over there.

— She must think it’s all fun, then. — He seemed upset. Angry, but without energy. — She is looking at me, doing my little dances for her. She won’t come down, but she won’t give in. She won’t let me rest in nobody’s eyes for a moment.

He cried or at least seemed to. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I caused him some trouble, that maybe his fantasy was to be left untouched. That I should not be the writer in charge of his story.

And just like that, he got up without a word and left at a slow pace. I didn’t know where he was going to, since I didn’t know the place, but he seemed to search for a lonelier corner of the facility.

As he was out of sight, I questioned his mind. He must’ve been in better shape than a lot of the other folks here. I didn’t understand why he was here at all. His sad face colored the clouded sky as if to say his melancholy was but a light wind; he was misshaped from the fall once his clouded body solidified and crushed in the pavement, and that was the last time he probably thought about his name. Or was he cloud, still, above all minds?

It was too much to ask of me to think too deeply about someone other than myself after what I’ve been through. I looked at the flower, his friend or partner. I felt like it was an open nerve, something coming out of his mind and trying to become reality. Something that the wind could destroy, too.

I picked the flower from the ground with a bit of effort. I put it in my pocket. Now he had nothing to worry about. He would have to stare at the clouds, just like the rest of us.

I entered the facility. Nothing much to talk about the place, it was just a white nothing. Everyone was dressed in white clothes, and the closer to reality they were, their clothes would be more respectable, clean and ironed.

I was expected to talk to a woman, but she was not next to the door as the doorman told me. I asked a cleaning lady where this woman was, but she seemed confused when I could not describe anything about her. She said, “it must be Ms. Donnell” and told me to cross a few hallways to go to another part of the building.

The building was pretty big, but I don’t think anyone actually goes through the whole place regularly. It seemed like I wouldn’t need to, also, so I didn’t bother to remember anything about the path. There were more people on the inside of the facility compared to that garden near the entrance, but according to the cleaning lady a lot of them were probably at another garden on the other side, since it was where a lot of them went to after lunch. Nobody seemed too out of the ordinary, at least I assumed, for a place like this. I could see some people sleeping in some beds pushed to the walls of the hallways, but other than that, everyone else was walking and mute.

I reached the garden on the other side. All the patients were standing still in the grass, looking around. While immobile, sunbathing seemed to be taking all their energy. I never saw anything like it; it was like everyone’s minds were equally connected, borrowing energy from the Sun to keep their bodies up while not making a sound and barely moving. As I crossed the door to the garden, I didn’t see a lady sitting on a bench directly to my left. She didn’t look at me; she just stared at them. She was the most well-dressed person I’ve seen all day, so she must be the mysterious lady I’ve been searching for.

— What are they doing? — I asked. She knew who I was; introductions are for strangers, not intruders.

— What does it look like they are doing? — She asked, so calm that it didn’t seem rude, while still not looking at me.

— Praying?

— Closer. — She smiled.

— It’s like photosynthesis. They’re resting to charge their energy. They seem to peacefully melt into the nature around them.

Her smile ceased. She seemed conflicted. I, unbeknownst to me, was being a bit cryptic.

— And to what would they use this energy they’re collecting? — She asked, in a more serious tone.

— I don’t think they know, but they’re all running from something. I think that takes a lot of energy.

She smiled. I realized I was being tested.

— It’s impressive how nobody seems to understand these people. — She kept looking at them, as if her blinking could make them disappear forever — In their own little ways, everyone looks at a person who’s lost their sense of self and wants to introduce their own sense of self, but none of these persons are made of you. You are not made of nothing nor anything but foreverness and neverness, and each of these around you are equally empty and full, regardless of the size of their cups.

— So, they don’t make sense? Are they just irrational? Impossible? — I was a bit irritated about someone trying to get one up on me on a subject that barely interested me.

— You’re travelling far into another universe, carrying laws different from your own. — She looked at me. — This is not on them; it’s on everyone else. You’re expecting planets from places outside your power to have gravity as well. What pulls them closer to each other is a force you don’t understand, because it’s not on your universe.

I was quite mad now. She wasn’t just saying I didn’t understand these mad people, now I wasn’t understanding even other sane people.

— So, nobody understands anybody? How do we work it out, then?

— This is true, and you’re closer to understanding me with your misunderstanding. I was talking about you. — She corrected herself and her posture, looking at the people in the garden again. — You can’t connect with anyone because they work with laws you don’t understand, and you’re not interested in understanding them. You just take what is yours from them and leave. But you can’t do this to these people; what they have to offer is worthless to your universe. This is your distance from their world. This is why you came here.

I was still quite frustrated, but I was curious about her, also. Never was I so interested in knowing who truly a person by my side was.

— So, you know why I came here? — I asked, trying to deescalate the situation to get a better read on her.

— I have a guess. Why don’t you tell me?

— Here? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Don’t you have an office or something?

— Nobody cares about you, don’t worry. This conversation could happen anywhere else in here.

She was trying to anger me. I think. It was hard to tell, she said things in such a calm and sad way, as if she had just received word from God that I was to stay on hell forever. There was nobody else that was not a patient around us, and the patients were a bit far from us, so I didn’t mind.

— I want to be a patient in this asylum.

— We’re not an “asylum”. And you are fine.

— That’s rather rude of you to assume.

— What makes you want to be here? — She seemed truly interested.

I pointed at the bench she was sitting on, asking if she could move a bit so I could sit there. The bench was spacious, so she let me sit by her side and stare at the vegetables.

— Do you know who I am? — I asked, looking at the ground like a child.

— You are a famous singer, a composer.

— Have you ever listened to something I wrote?

— I have not. Is it good?

— I am here now. Does it seem very good?

— I don’t know. — She picked up a box of cigarettes from her purse. — You don’t seem very bright, so no. Other than that, you’re not the only singer here. They all love music.

— Who doesn’t? — I gestured so to ask for a cigarette. She gave me one and lit up both of our sticks.

— Then what troubles you?

— I pushed everyone away. My manager. My associates. My wife. — I stared at the ground again. — I want to hide and never be found.

— This is not a weekend getaway. These people are not your vacation friends.

— I won’t touch them. — I said, feeling the flower in my pocket twitch in anger. — They will be safe from me. I feel… Like I am very close to not thinking at all anymore. I want to be gone.

— And yet, you mock them.

— Reality is just where they lay; it is not a part of their bodies anymore.

— And you write motionless? Your words are your own veins, now?

— You don’t know, you haven’t listened to me.

— I know. You are easy to read.

I didn’t understand why she was so antagonistic. It was like from the phone call of the doorman she already knew what kind of person I was and was ready to push me away.

— I have the money. I will pay to stay here.

— This is not a hotel.

— You need the money.

— Actually, we can’t even accept your money. But why here, anyway? Just go to a hotel and die, like many others of your profession.

— I want to… — I said, then I stopped.

She looked at me. I was embarrassed to say.

— I want to lose my mind. I want to become like them. — I said, staring at the ground again, as if waiting for my mother to come and pick me up.

— Why?

— I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to have a single thought.

She stared at me. She didn’t seem to change her mind, but for some reason, she seemed less distant. The space between us on the bench was slowly being swallowed by every word, but I felt like I could stare into her eyes and not see my reflections. My mind could never penetrate her stone walls; she was a clean brush used to paint until no color came out — she was water never wet.

— Stay here, then. I will go on a trip tomorrow. I will return in two weeks. If you are not gone by then, you will be.

She got up and told me to follow her. We went into her office, signed some papers… Everything was pretty boring. By the end of the day, I was assigned new clothes, a room and was told about how the facility worked from the hours we had lunch to the limit of time we could spend in our own rooms during the day. I did not understand why she accepted me there. In fact, I would never know.

It was Saturday. I didn’t know what day it was exactly. All I knew was that it was time to be at the garden, sunbathing. We just had lunch and now it was time to socialize and rest before a few activities, but nobody talked to anybody. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I just rested under the Sun like a flower, waiting for the heat to stop being so pleasant, waiting for the wind to stop being so light. I wanted to cause some destruction, but I was only a creator. And if every creator is a destructor, then I managed to finally be nothing.

A man came up to me. He worked in the facility. He told me Ms. Donnell came back. Has it already been two weeks? I couldn’t tell. I followed him, looking at the white floors on the way to her office. I hadn’t been there in a while.

She asked me to sit. She was dressed in black; another thing I would never know why. My words were slow; her words were just the same. She was as sad as when I last met her, and I was mirroring her in a weird way, gently drowning in the air of a thought, quietly suffocating in suffering.

— It has been two months. Two and a half. — She said, while shuffling some papers on her desk.

I felt so low with that knowledge. I had lost my sense of time completely.

— I feel like the world forgot about me. — I said, with my words feeling as dry as my lips. — I feel like I already died.

— Was that not your desire? — She still seemed more interested in her papers.

— Who wants to be living like the dead, in memory only?

— Cherished solely by the good memories? Most people.

— I haven’t caused good memories. I was just a car crash nobody could help but see.

— No. — She held my hand, and her eyes pierced through mine as if only she could see her own reflection there. — You were a tree that fell on the forest, and nobody heard.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to ask for forgiveness. I wanted to pray to the first god that would come my way. I wanted to be a slave to the whip of the world; I wanted to be the shadow stepped on by the feet of a hurricane.

— I heard what happened to you. — She brought her papers closer to her eye, even though she grabbed her glasses to see properly. — You had a fight with your wife. You hit the wall; you screamed at her. You had a complaint made by neighbors; they told the police you were in a fit of jealousy. So, you went to her mother’s house the next morning, waiting for your partner to step out of the door for you to do whatever you wanted to do. And that was the last time you would be seen with her.

I looked at the ground, still wanting to find a way to make the gravity of the room shift, so I could see how our bodies would float and how our names would sound in a space without weight.

— You did not kill her, did you? — She still seemed distant with her words, as if she did not care for me or my wife.

— I would never do that. She is in my house. — I said, very quietly.

— I believe you. I went there, a few days after we spoke; she was alright. Except for a mark on her arm. Your hand twisting on her arm, I suppose.

I did not want to have that conversation anymore; even though my mind told me to not care less about my wife, my heart was in a quieter place.

— She told me… — She brought the papers closer to her eyes once again. — … That you told her that she crossed a line, so you “created a line on the house, and if she crossed that line, you would never speak with her again”. The line was at the front door.

— But she could leave, you know.

— How, exactly?

— There was no line on the back door. She could just open it and walk away.

She seemed unfazed by my words or anything. As if, from the beginning, she was reading my lips.

— Is she still there? — I asked, sobbing.

— She left the day you left. This conversation happened on the morning you came here, so she left in the afternoon. When I saw her at your house, she was just getting some of her stuff with some of the people that work for you.

— Could you tell me, please? — I was shaking a bit.

— Tell you what?

— From which door did she leave? The front door or the back door?

She stared at her papers for what seemed like an hour. I was alone with my thoughts, and their company was far worse than the looneys I had to put up with for these past months. I would never know why she left me with them for so long, why she did not come back after two weeks or why she came back at that moment.

After some shuffling, she organized the papers and put them on the desk facing me. She looked at me and smiled, sternly.

— You can go.

I froze instantly. My eyes were sand in an hourglass but fighting her gravity and trying to lock on her murmuring stare.

— What do you mean?

— You know the way to the front door. You can go. Your weekend getaway is done.

— But reality doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Please, let me stay.

— As I told you, this is not a place for reality to not make sense. This is not a place for the world to not reach you, for you to be the blameless vestal. — She spoke the next words almost in a whisper, as if her lips were tired of me. — This is a house. Just a house. And this is not your house. So, be gone.

— But what if I hurt her again? What if I can only think about her and I get drunk again and scream at her?

— This is your problem, not of any patient here. — She looked at my body with pitiless stillness. — You walked like them. You dined with them. You sunbathed under their Sun. And to what bed you laid but the bed of them. You were silent, you were wordful, and you were bummed, but you were never gone.

— So, is this a place for the gone?

— No. This is a place for the living. You wished to be living like the dead. Nobody here is dead, so you can die someplace else.

It was hard to understand how her mind worked. It was as if she understood me, but she would never give in to me. It was always like I was close to getting her to be on my side, just to know she was luring me to a trap. But it wasn’t a trap as much as it was something laid down for me to see. It was something I had to choose to step on, and I always did. That’s marriage, I suppose. She was just like my wife.

— Is she waiting for me? — I asked, begging for pity like a dog who wet their bed.

— Why don’t you go out and ask her? — She smiled, pointing at the door, then joining her fingers and resting her hands on the desk.

I got up. I wasn’t ready for the noise of life.

— One more thing. — She said, just as I was opening the door.

— What is it?

— When you enter the world, when you find the door to the other side… — She smiled once again. — Close the door on your way out.

I was walking through the garden, a bit lost, but on my way to leaving the facility. As I was crossing the garden at the front of the building, I noticed I never went there again after that day. We kind of couldn’t; the people that took care of us would always direct us to stay at either the other two gardens in the inside or one of the gymnasiums.

I suddenly snapped out of my sadness. I felt something in my pocket. That flower was still there; I never took it out. I forgot about it completely, since I didn’t have anything to store in my pockets these days. I looked around. I realized I had not met that man I had talked to on my first day here all this time. I never saw him inside of the facility, not even lunching or dining.

Sure enough, he was there. But he was on one of the walls, staring at it. Even though I could only see his back, he seemed happy enough.

I got closer. What he was staring at was the drawing of a mermaid etched on the tile of the wall around the garden. She was faceless, it was quite a crude drawing. But for him, it was enough.

I felt bad now about taking his flower from him, but he seemed fine. I thought he would be destroyed after that, as it was my intention, but he seemed to be the exact same as the last time I saw him, save from a bigger beard.

— What are you doing? — I asked, looking at the mermaid locking me a few more seconds in that awful place.

— I am waiting for her response! — He pointed at the mermaid, so happy.

“It’s funny, but it’s true
And it’s true, but it’s not funny

Time comes and goes, all the while
I still think of you
Some things last a long time”

Daniel Johnston’s “Some Things Last a Long Time“

About the text: I felt like writing for the-thief today because my Nightporter posts may take a while to be written. Since I don’t want to talk about what I’ve always talked about in the-thief anymore, this is a more personal post, while also being a less personal one. I wanted to tell a story, but I kind of didn’t put me in there. Maybe at the old man at the beginning only, and that’s also the only callback to previous posts on the-thief, but I wanted to create a situation where I was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

I’ve been completely addicted to Daniel Johnston’s music these past days (I’m deeply sorry for those who listen to the January playlist and can’t stand him, he’s everywhere over there), and after watching the documentary “The Devil and Daniel Johnston”, I started to think about my own mental health. I saw myself on Johnston up until his bipolar disorder and manic depression caught up to him, and after that it was as if I wasn’t even recognizing myself anymore (if you know portuguese, you can check my Letterboxd review of it). I will definitely talk about it more in the upcoming texts about his music. If you have never listened to him, he requires a bit of patience at first. Listen to “True Love Will Find You in The End”, both the 1990 and the Retired Boxer versions (I prefer the lo-fi one). I think that was probably his best song, and most accessible. But anyway, thinking of Johnston and the documentary, you start thinking about the human mind. It’s impossible not to.

Despite what may seem like, this short story is not about a girl; I don’t pretend to write anything like that for a long while, not until another one or the same one appear to me in a clearer way. This text’s about obsession, still, but I wanted to talk about the isolation I went through these past months. It’s about life, mistreating life, mistreating your own company. It’s about going on a journey to find yourself and going back on the first day because you forgot your keys. It’s about the world turning and you standing still. It’s about sand still being stone.

Daniel Johnston and a bunch of other artists and bands are in this month’s Nightporter playlist, the longer one I’ve made up until this point (this month’s playlist post will be a bit late because of that, sorry). Listen to it below.

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