FreNzy

I wrote everything after the first section which was written by the lovely and talented Angela Aguigui, a very dear friend of mine. Why she entrusted me to play in her story-world I’m not sure, but I had fun, and she seemed to be pleased with the results. It’s far from perfect but it was a fun exercise.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


FreNzy

Everyday she learned new words. Every new word she learned gave her a new idea and defined a familiar emotion. Every electric current she ever felt now had a source and destination. Every thought she absently wondered now had wings to fly. She gained questions, opinions, and musing.

These words, she thought, are gifts from the Gods.

She had favorite words, and she learned to write them in curls on paper. She pasted these words to the wall. More and more she surrounded herself with these words. She would spin in the center until they all blurred together.

Words lead to phrases and phrases lead to poetry and poetry lead to spills of letters like water over rocks.

Soon, every inch of wall space was covered, and her home was no longer a refuge. Her head became crowded like her walls, and even when she closed her eyes she saw the words staring back at her, indifferent.

One night she could not sleep. The words gained a voice and now she could hear them whispering in unintelligible urgency. The more she understood the more she became confused.

In the darkness, she tore the words from the wall, cutting her hands and bumping into furniture.

When she woke, she was on the floor, surrounded by the words that were crumpled and torn. She swept the carnage into plastic and delivered them to the dumpster. She gave away her books and covered every label left in her house. She no longer wanted words, only peace.

Eventually, she stopped speaking.

She would curl in bed and wish for the womb where words that created wants and wishes did not exist. These words, she thought, are more of a curse than a gift.

==============================================================


The images flooded his mind all at once, like a shot gun blast to the face. Sometimes so violently they hurt. Too swiftly to capture all at once, he tried to sketch them out but he just couldn’t move fast enough. Sleepless nights lead to depression and lack of health. He toyed with different ideas filtering through several mediums searching for an answer that wouldn’t lead to suicide.

Collage. It worked for Picasso, he thought. Often times artists, great and mediocre, will use what ever scraps they happen to find lying around. Leftovers. Afterbirth. The amniotic fluid of life, he thought, calling himself witty afterward. This can sometimes lead to "dumpster-diving" as they search for the perfect waste for their pallet.

He searched at night by flashlight, being careful of making too much noise. I’ll pretend I’m a cat if anyone comes up, he thought. Thankfully, none did.

He happened upon a bag, plastic from some random store perhaps. What he found inside ravaged his emotions. By flashlight he read her words, experienced her thoughts and felt her poetry. He smiled. And cried. And laughed. He even stumbled through confusion over words he didn’t understand.

How could someone throw this away? he thought. The bag came with him, perhaps he could put it to use.

He hurried home to pour over the words again, to pick and choose what would make art. One by one, he read, searching. Hours he searched.

Nothing.

I can’t use these, he thought. These words are magic. But they’re not my magic.

But someone threw them away, he thought, looking across the room at the piles of crumpled paper- his own failed magic.

The words sparked something in him. He un-crumpled his sketches and gave them a second look. They weren’t failures at all. There was magic there. A gift from the gods, perhaps. Like these words. Someone thought them failures, perhaps curses, but they were neither. They are magic, he thought.

He wanted to find this person- this magician- and return these words, this poetry- these spells. But how? he asked himself, diving deeper into the bag.

Then he found it. Statically clinging to the wall of plastic, he found her- an empty envelope.

There he found a name, and her address.

==============================================================

She almost felt bad for burning the books. Could have donated them or something, she thought. But that wouldn’t be good enough. The words would still be there. Fire has a certain finality to it, she’d learned that the hard way so long ago. Besides to donate them would mean to deal with more.

So she carefully placed them into the barrel being sure the fire didn’t get out of hand again. And watched as her world returned to the ashes.

Inside, she fumbled with the now wordless stereo remote to find the channel that played chamber music. Something to quell the silence and the ghosts of the words.

She laid on the floor of her living room staring at the ceiling, trying to embrace the music. Trying to find that elusive peace from the curse. She laid there throughout the night, watching the light of passing cars dance along her walls, listening to the sounds of a cat in the garbage outside.

Morning came and she was starving. She wanted something but had no idea where to find it. No words, no labels. So she guessed and baked a breakfast pastry, after throwing every blank can across the room.

She felt filthy and disheveled and got up to take a shower. But on her way to the bathroom her plan was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Who the hell?

She was surprised to find a man, near her age, attractive but not overly so. Too stunned to speak, she only stared, admiring the splatters of dried paint on his clothes. Obviously an artist, she thought. She was immediately intrigued, having admired Monet and other impressionists’ magic. She wondered what spells he weaved.

He said something but she didn’t hear it as he presented a gift from the past- her bag, with her magic.

==============================================================

She was the plainest thing he’d ever seen. "Frumpy," a word he’d inherited from an old girlfriend is how he’d describe her. That particular relationship was based solely on lust. She was beautiful but when he wanted to expound on the mysteries of Freud or Nietzsche, she wanted to discuss Dolce and Gabbana. She’d spend more time primping than actually doing anything so it ended quickly.

This person in front of him, however, looked like she avoided her reflection. Her acne scars and dimpled chin, the nose that seemed just a tad too large for her face, it all made her seem so-- human.

Is this her? He asked himself. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but for some reason he was surprised by the prospect of his muse wearing stained sweat pants and a washed out blue(?) t-shirt.

She said nothing to his surprise. He’d expected a "hello" at least. She appeared exhausted, her eyes puffy and red.

The silence became awkward so he decided to break it, "I found this," he said showing her the bag.

Hands reached out and snatched the satchel of mystery before he could even finish his thought. She turned from the door and ran inside, leaving the door ajar.

"Hello?" he called after. With no answer in sight he decided to follow. He saw cans with no labels lying in piles in one corner of a room. Boxes with the words scratched off or covered with tape. This had to be the strangest person he’d ever met. And he liked strange.

Following her noise he came into the last room of the house and found she’d already had half the wall covered. He had no idea why but he pulled the pencil he always carried with him from his pocket and began to sketch her frenzy right there on the wall.

It took a couple of minutes until she needed to rest and she realized what he was doing. He looked to her, not knowing if he should apologize, but she just smiled and finally spoke.

"FreNzy," she said as she wrote it out beside the drawing. He laughed and saw past the surface. He peaked beneath the flesh and saw the deep beauty within. And he felt he was falling in love.

They stared at each other for mere moments but felt eternity pass. Together they raced to his car and drove to fetch his supplies. They were silent as they gathered everything he’d need to create his magic. Their magic.

She reached for a pillow and blanket lying on the couch.

"Leave it," he said. And they silently returned to her asylum.

==============================================================


She wrote her words or spoke them to him and he began to paint, to sketch, to paste.

He’d work and display for her his paintings, sketches, collages, and she’d apply words to fill in the gaps of feeling.

Canvas eventually ran out but there were still walls. And after walls there was the floor. And after that the ceiling. And each other after that.

So committed they were to the madness, that they forgot the simple things. They were so enveloped in each other and in each other’s magic that they didn’t eat- they didn’t sleep. They just kept going- sustaining each other on their shared magic. Days turned to weeks. And weeks into a month. Paintings and words were covered with more paintings and more words.

The world outside went to hell while they became lost in the joy of each other. They were quite mad in the end- by the time they were too weak to realize they’d neglected their bodies beyond their limits. They starved and dehydrated and gasped for breath. But as they laid there holding hands, admiring their madness, dying, they smiled. And neither regretted a thing.