George Eastman Hall

… And the Crazy Woman returns

The Crazy Woman is not a lunatic who, known by all, is wandering around downtown. Nor is she the village idiot. She is my curly-haired, sad birch tree. I’m not writing about her this much because she is my favorite but because she is what I never dared to become. I am too industrious to be likeable. The Crazy Woman does nothing for love; she just lives life and that’s it. She doesn’t want to be useful; she bears no fruit; no birds nest on her.

In her caprice, once, she invented an imprudent hair-do by twirling a tuft up. Her scandalous hairstyle caught the attention of all, so much so that I sawed off that branch immediately. Little did she care about this humiliating warning; instead, she began to gain weight excessively. And she continues to love herself being that fat. When darkness falls, my garden is not disturbed by street lights as the lamps posts are hidden by the house. But a stray, curious ray of light only shines on the Crazy Woman. She reclines on the double bed of the black night like an ample woman, idly, softly, lusciously. She is thoughtless of others but she is excused because she is beautiful and because she loves herself. By the end of the day, I often get so tired that I can only wash the dishes sitting because if I leave them undone I hate myself by the morning so much that I wish I had not woken up at all. But the Crazy Woman! I have never seen her doing any dishes. She, of course, will not plunge her stunning white extremities into the dishwater. She doesn’t brush her hair; it’s always ruffled. She doesn’t dye her hair; when she goes gray, she simply sheds the coiffure. She is beautiful bald too. She grows fresh and sassy hair. I envy this Crazy Woman as a woman can be envious of another woman who is more beautiful and happier than her.

Zseni Jung