Persephone

The Mad Girl Makes a Mantra of Something She’s Heard in a Most Unlikely Place

155 The Mad Girl Makes a Mantra of Something She’s Heard in a Most Unlikely Place She says it, scraping snow off the T Bird she’s half forgotten how to drive, at bus stops, at the street approaching the dark lot she imagines muggers float up from. If it works, it will be better than Valium, better than wine. “Be thankful for stress and tension, sweet music can’t come from a loosely strung harp.” Or is it “heart” she wonders, shaking, terrified to go on stage, vowing never again like a Holocaust survivor. Some days the mad girl is a piece of yanked off skin, seems tough because what was closest to her, now is on the outside, a mask over what is knotted inside, strung so tight, even a breath moving near, a sign in the front row triggers a rainbow of sounds she’s startled by ...