Lee Crase's Vagabond Lit

A dear friend of mine, wise in chaos and long in leg, sent me an anecdote about a technique for writers known as the Flower Paradigm. I only had to imbibe a few lines before realizing, this is spot on. My skin erupted in chill with the thought that someone somewhere knows me that well to send me such a shattering piece of self-psychosis masquerading as diagnosis. The Flower Paradigm breaks this writing life into four succulent personalities: Madman, Judge, Architect, and Carpenter. I list them in order as a spoiler for how each should be approached, but will describe each based on their actual weave of existence.

The Judge is the staunch old man who has been there, done that, knows better than you and has a smug fascist grin on his face as he perches on your shoulder, constantly reminding you that those words you put down on the page aren’t the words he would choose. He is so worldly that he wouldn’t even lower himself to your idea. He is the author of every book you have ever read and his farts cut the air cleaner than yours. He even mandates women authors by virtue of the fact that he must be a he so that he can stand over you and piss on your head as you try to write. Every word you eek out onto the page is another reminder that you are only trying, you will never be a real writer. This man is always there. That man is me. Truth be verily told, he has a place, but not at the head of the table. No one else will get to eat if they wait for him to pass the meat and potatoes. You will go hungry and you will curse the advent of hierarchies if you do not seat this man at his proper place at the table. He is a required guest, but he shouldn’t lead the dance.

The Madman is a juicy romp in some back bedroom away from the other guests. A hard secret to keep, but most of us go to great lengths to hide this flesh-dipped whore. This is the man that your parents will go to great lengths to keep you away from– even going so far as to act like they share the Judge’s erudite cup of tea in his self projection. Don’t be fooled by your mother’s tight clad knees– everyone wants to bed the madman, but no one wants to admit to anyone else that he had his way with you. For obvious reasons, the Madman is personified as a woman. That’s not a denouncement of homosexuality; I just can’t get over the way men smell. My Madman is a Madwoman– tomboyish in action, ladylike in features. She is too frequently a victim of the Puritanism of American society and therefore considered a vice. She is the slut you bed before lying to your friends that you’re still waiting for the right woman to come along. Your first words to your parents, following a much needed six-month hiatus, should be an introduction of the Madwoman, followed by the bomb: She’s carrying my baby. Fuck first and forage later– that is the message of the Madman/Madwoman.

The Carpenter is frequently the dashing young debutante you hope to show off to all your friends. Someone will surely say: He always seemed like such a loser, but damn, he has a nice house. The best example of how many of us utilize our Carpenter goes something like this: Buy a stack of 2×4s, pile them into a neat stack– possibly something clever and remotely artsy, then run back to the store and buy a handful of nails– thinking that you can drive the nails with your bare hands because you’re just that good and you’ve dismissed the Judge, so no one can tell you otherwise, go back and finally decide on a hammer based on color and try to transform your stack of wood into a house. Not just some neat little fort that you can occasionally visit when you stray out into the wilderness, rather a sturdy abode that will keep you dry during the monsoon season and will be a suitable abode for your inevitable craving for cable TV. The Carpenter should rank substantially on your Christmas Card list, but make sure that you have enough postage before you address all the cards and dilapidate your tongue by sealing too many cards that you’ll never actually send.

The Architect bears a striking resemblance to the Judge. They might even be confused as brothers, but don’t get lynched in this civil entrapment. The Architect can provide valuable feedback for what options of cabinet are available, but only after your wood is assessed. Your whole package must be checked, stroked, contemplated, and organized before being delivered. There is no sense in encouraging him to fornicate with the Madwoman, unless you want three-eyed children with less than cumulative perfect vision in this triaditic monstrosity. El Architecto is essential to the orgy, but if inserted in the wrong place the circle will spin counter clockwise and you’ll be stuffed with a back door full of undesireables– your back sheened in a smell you couldn’t possibly approve.

Everyone gets an invitation to the party, but only when the music stops and everyone is sitting in their predetermined chairs do goody bags get handed out. Music can be assumed on a kazoo with flippant plastic edging the windowsills of breath’s escape, but the song is only memorable if everyone’s guitar is strung in tune. Only the rebelliousness of youth dares to assign the Madman to lead vocals, Judge to guitar, Architect to bass, and Carpenter to drums; but only can the adage of old age overcome the certainty of failure by remaining Jung at heart. Archetypes are typical of a long legged, chaotically wise endeavor of this writing life.

© n06XI Vagabond Lit