Yesterday, in the rain, I walked over to have my little lunch under the park pravilion in front of the Library, before I went in. I hesitate to go there now, as always there is a homeless person sitting there, and there are few "Romantics", in today's wanderers, I fear, as alcohol, anger, and craziness rule.
sure enough there was someone there, a young lady standing in the corner. She was singing to herself at full volume an d she commented to herself too, after each song, sung at hyper maniac intensity. On and on...
the "mess" of the Nest, her nest, in the corner, infers that she has been there for hours already, probably since she left the Shelter at 7 am, and probably will be there all day long, and not a moment of silence as she rants and sings and comments non-stop.
No audience either. There was no interaction between me and her, there could not be such, as she sung only for and to herself, I was not there, even sitting 15 feet away. Do no good to interupt her either, probably, as I would get a "word salad" answer, sentences unrelated to one another and words all minced together in full
Back in 1960, she probably would have been living back in Ward 4, the ward where the incurables live, and live their whole lives out, shut off, but protected from the world. Today it is the streets.
I could tell that she is intelligent, probably a college student until her shizophrena kicked in. No for life, I fear, she will be like this.
No counselings, no drugs, even, can touch this brain of hers.
Maniac enthusiasm with no focus and direction, let alone self-control: any of her Visions cannot be communicated, even to herself! Random Brownian movement, of the synapses, to whatever she thinks about, coffee cups and Mozart and the balloons of cats and sailing boats that leave at 3 pm to sail the coal mines back in old London, the conductors serves tea at 4, thank you ma'am!