Friday, August 11, 2006

My love of Emily Dickinson has caused something of a rift.

Hello again.

My name is Dr Robert Willis, Phd, and as many of you will know, I have taken over the writing of this journal while Mr Dibny is convalescing from mental damage at the hands of Mr Hal Jordan and his sleazy associate, Mr Oliver Queen. Many of you have been curious as to how Mr Dibny has been keeping over the past few days, and whether the brief periods of lucidity demonstrated in the comments section - mostly where money is involved - mark a return to the Ralph we have all grown to know and tolerate. Well, as Emily Dickinson put it, "Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed" and in this respect I must confess to count success as very sweet indeed. In other words, I have failed Mr Dibny, and I have failed you, his supporters and well-wishers. Oh, the shame of it!

Ralph is missing and has not been seen in thirty-six hours.

He appears to have climbed out of the window of one of the staff toilets, dropped twenty feet into a tree and then made his way from there. I'm somewhat worried for him as - as far as I know - he is completely stark naked. "Wherever you are, that is home", Emily Dickinson would say in this situation, but I doubt a naked man with a severe and violent mental complaint has a home anywhere in polite society.

At least he's left that horrid dummy behind. I shall break the vile thing up and use it for fuel this coming winter, as it promises to be brisk.

Casting my mind back to the hour of his disappearance from my company, I seem to remember that he had become fixated on his reputation as a detective.

To quote: "Get that needle out of me you god-damned fraud! I'm a world-famous detective and Emily Dickinson is a world-famous ho! You heard me, Dickinson! You can suck it! SUCK IT!!"

Unwilling as I am to forgive so merciless a slight against the divine Emily Dickinson, I very much regret my later course of action. Receiving a telephone call from another psychiatric institute - this one being a centre for the treatment of criminally insane scientists with a propensity towards the outre - I was informed that they had a missing persons case that was baffling them and that they understood my patient was something of a devotee of bizarre and fantastic mysteries.

I should make it clear that this is the telephone call Mr Dibny has been waiting for for some years, as he has always felt that solving strange mysteries is his true calling and any other line of work is beneath him. I told the staff at The Haven that Mr Dibny would be glad to take the case as soon as his health was improved, and then - shamefully and against all proper psychiatric practice - I dangled the phone call like a carrot before him, playing upon his love of the detective arts like Marcel Tournier (1879-1951) playing upon a harp. As soon as he demonstrated that he was fit to rejoin civilisation, I said, he could get straight to work. I may have demanded an apology on behalf of Emily Dickinson as well.

After an initial flash of rage and violent threats, during which time he threatened to burst free from his straightjacket, he calmed considerably and seemed fascinated by the prospect of solving a new case. He begged me to fetch him his medications so that we might drive over at once and investigate.

Fool that I am! He merely wanted me out of the room so that he could mount his escape bid. He had loosened his bonds sufficiently to slip free, and now ran to the nearest unbarred window to hurl himself into the leafy arms of his compatriot on the road to freedom, the humble Quercus laceyi, before running naked into the distance like some sort of mentally deranged wood-nymph. Needless to say, this represents such an immense psychiatric faux pas on my part that I can hardly see how I shall ever face my other patients again.

I can only assume that Ralph intends to solve the puzzle of Dr Morrow's vanishing into the ether, though how he intends to do that without the benefit of clothes is beyond me. I have the police scouring the neighbourhood for him, but should they fail to find him, I fear the worst - swift degeneration into a mindset more befitting that of a wild animal than a human being.

Ah, well. "People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles", as Emily Dickinson said.

6 Comments:

Blogger Swamp Thing said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

7:44 AM  
Blogger Dr Robert Willis, Phd said...

For a man composed primarily of vegetation, you really are an insufferable ass. Everything has to be about you, doesn't it? For your information, I've been in touch with Ms DaCosta - WITH AN A - and she's as perplexed as I am. A lovely woman with a fine understanding of the poetry of John Keats.

Instead of making up these deranged fantasies and boring us all to tears with them, might I suggest you spend a little time on your own journal? I'm sure you've had plenty of sordid encounters with large-breasted girls in tight spandex that you're just itching to tell us about.

6:47 AM  
Blogger Swamp Thing said...

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10:59 AM  
Blogger ? said...

Let me assure you that Mr.Dibny is fine, I recently provided him or some alternate universe version of him with free clothes.

He seemed to be in quite a normal state of mind, with the small exception of a bit of foam coming from his mouth. He mentioned something about a squirrel biting him, or something of the sort.

Hopefully this will put your mind to ease.

4:46 PM  
Blogger ? said...

Alas, it seems that it was just a homeless man.

6:01 PM  
Blogger Swamp Thing said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

5:15 AM  

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