Talking to Henry, I said I didn't like clowns. I liked madmen. Henry said, 'Madmen are too serious.'

Anais Nin
October 5, 1936
Diary entry


Dandy War Hole

Inchoate must be a good word for the day. Purge morning glory from your eyes, discard the sheets, and spell out the usual formula: This, the first day of the rest of my life.

When convinced, get up. Forget the calisthenics, but if memory serves you too well, just say, tomorrow. Wonder about the words playing on your mind because, it's true, you might have dreamt them from some cavernous consciousness. For example: Dandy war hole? Ask yourself: Now where did that come from? The mirror may answer. Say: Oh! In exhilarating, sunshiny day exclammation because you realize you're still wearing the black Andy Warhol portrait shirt you bought a couple of months ago. You had the spare cash, you remember, and the moment you touched Warhol's hanger, she entered your mind, her hair blown by noonwind and her teeth somehow silver.

Look at the mirror, say: Oh! yet again because somebody wrote that everybody's pretty with hair messed up, fresh from the night's pillows, the rays of the sun stretching calmly on a misty-eyed morning. Smile. Everybody's pretty when they wake up, and you're no exception.

Frown. Remember how that was something you wrote when you were a freshman and you've not had enough mornings. Smile again, though you feel stupid in the alternating expressions once overused to portray madness in old flicks. Smile again, because as you more recently wrote: I must.

Besides, she entered your mind again! Windblown hair and quicksilver smile, see?

Dandy war hole. Dandy war hole. Dandy war hole.

Keep the smile, although it's true when you declare: I should be off to work.