FORWARD
I first discovered Phantom Landwise in a poetry class at the prison in which I currently reside. She was a semi-important Avant-Garde poet in the fifties. The first poem I read by her was called "Naked."
Where the hell are my stockings?
And why can't people leave my camera alone?
And has anyone seen my car keys?
And who stole my hair dryer?
And where the fuck are my glasses?
I thought she was brilliant, and am now devoting my time to chronicling her life. This biography relies on books about people she was in contact with, letters to friends, her own poems, police reports, innuendo and hearsay.
There were some real interesting people in that poetry class, the most interesting probably being Suzy Q. Everyone should meet Suzy Q, but you ought to have iron bars between you and her. No one knows what her last name is, even the guards are afraid to ask. She's in jail for killing a guy who tried to guess her name.
"I'll bet your name is Mary," he said, after ordering a gin and tonic. "Mary, right? No, wait, you look more like a Joan to me. No? How about Catherine? Is that it? Catherine? Denise?"
At that point she killed him. She wrapped her hands around his throat and squeezed while half a dozen people tried to drag her off. When the police asked her for her name, she said Suzy Q. When they asked what the Q stood for she said it was none of their business. That was that.
"Hello," I said to her, "what's your name?"
"Suzy Q."
"My name's Celia W," I said, "I'm a victim of an unjust society."
"Hey," she said softly, "me too."
"Your honor," I said at my sentencing, "I welcome the opportunity to go to jail and meet society's glorious rebels."
"Miss Wallensby," he said, "I welcome the opportunity to send you there."
"Ms. Wallensby you pig." I got the maximum sentence.
Suzy Q says she'll stay in jail till it gets boring. Then she'll leave. The guards are real nervous about this, they chipped in to buy her a stereo and a color TV set.
"Look at you Suzy," her mother would say to her. "Your clothes are awful. Your hair's a mess." Suzy Q took the family rifle out of the closet and pointed it at her mother. "It was awful," she told me. "It was a terrible mistake. I felt sick to my stomach when I pulled that trigger and heard that nasty little click. I thought the damn thing was loaded!"
"Parents are a bitch," I said consolingly. It's nice having a friend like Suzy Q. The other girls don't bother me. And if I take something from one of them no one complains. Not that I would steal anything from a fellow human being. But I do occasionally get myself long term unauthorized loans.
I learned on the road to be rather casual about other people's belongings (I would've been casual about my own possessions but I didn't have any -- all I had was my body but we won't go into that). A lot of food in the supermarkets just gets thrown out after a couple of days, so I thought I'd take a little before that could happen to it. If I got caught I'd say "Food belongs to everyone man. It's really beautiful. I mean, the giving of food to hungry people is a really groovy thing." (My God, remember when we all talked like that?) Fortunately I was real cute. There's nothing a middle aged store manager likes better than a cute teenage free spirit. Men are such suckers. It must be embarrassing to go through your whole life being one.
The only man I really ever liked much was my boyfriend George. While it never became common knowledge, George was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. We used to travel around the country and he would preach the word of Himself.
People were skeptical. I can understand that. It was sometimes hard not to be skeptical about George. It's like when you're a kid and you ask why doesn't God just make things okay everywhere and they say "because he wants you to have faith and you can't have faith if it's too obvious it's true." George was like God, he didn't perform many miracles.
"Listen," I said, "we've been together six months and I haven't seen you heal anybody. I mean, I've never even seen you change a flat tire. You always make me do it."
"I don't think it would prove much if I changed a flat tire," he said.
"You could psychically heal it or something. I mean, the son of God's tires shouldn't even blow out man."
"God's not a mechanic, you know. The world was originally all organic. I'm not an expert on this man made stuff. I mean, do you want me to ride a donkey around the country?"
"At least it would get people's attention. I mean, no one even knows you're Jesus Christ. You don't even have disciples."
"Aren't you a disciple?"
"Come on man, you don't sleep with disciples."
"Who says?"
"Well, it's not in the Bible.
"Nothing's in the Bible. Does it talk about my children in the Bible?"
"You had kids?"
"Sure. I don't know why people always act like I must've died a virgin. I mean let's be realistic -- I was real popular. I was a very sexy guy."
And at least that much was true.
After he was crucified I would compare anyone I dated with George. The only thing they ever had over him was the ability to breathe.
"George is dead, C." Trixie Starlight said that to me. She was my best friend back then, before she turned state's evidence.
"I know that, Trixie."
"Other guys, they won't be like George, C."
"I know Trixie. They'll be scum."
"Yeah," said Trixie, somewhat wistfully I thought. "But, like, I mean, you can't just go out with every guy and think 'scum scum scum scum scum.' George isn't due for reincarnation for two thousand years, and that's a long time to wait for a guy. You gotta like, find someone to kill the next two thousand years with."
"Scum scum scum, Trixie."
"Just find scum who's good in bed and likes giving head."
That was Jack. Jack was an attempted suicide I met in the funny farm. Jack was boring, but not really so much scum.
He would always sit outside, regardless of the weather. He'd sit on a certain bench and when I wanted to talk I'd go over and sit by him. For a while, neither of us would say anything. We'd just sit. Then he'd say "Hello Celia," and I'd say "Hello Jack." It was almost a ritual. That's how it was the day I found out they were springing me. "We're springing you," said the doc. "Good," I replied. But then I had to tell Jack. There's nothing quite so dreary as saying goodbye to a man. They do love to carry on.
"It looks like I'm getting out of here," I said to Jack.
"Oh," said Jack.
Jack was not a talkative fellow, but this was an awfully small word. The worst kind of going on is when men try to stick a lot of meaning into one little word. And what Jack was saying was "Please don't go." Only of course when they think you're sane they don't let you stay. Anyway, I didn't want to stay.
"I'll miss you," he said.
"I'll miss you, too," I replied. I wouldn't, really, but men love to think they're going to be missed. It's some sort of ego thing. I was going to go out and have fun. But I guess men have some sort of feelings, so you might as well be nice to them if it's not too much trouble and you're not going to see them again for a while anyway. Besides, Jack was in for attempted suicide and I didn't want to have him go hang himself on the bed sheets or something.
"I love you."
Suicidal or not, there are limits to the lies I'll tell. Jack was cute, but I wasn't in love with him. He never said anything! I might as well love a brick wall!
A very pretty brick wall.
"Oh, don't love me, I'm crazy." That was my little joke.
"I love you." I suddenly realized that he'd never come out and told me he loved me before. He'd probably been working up the courage to do it all week. So he sure as hell didn't want me being funny. I was supposed to be touched! He could see I wasn't taking him very seriously, and he was going to keep on saying he loved me until I did. This was worse than I had expected!
"I appreciate that." I mean, what can you say to "I love you" if you don't want to say "I love you?!" I remember when George said he loved me.
"I love you," said George.
"You're Christ, you love everybody," I noted.
"Of all the everybodys I love, I love you most of all."
"You don't have to say that, you know. You've already got my body."
He got mad. "Dammit! Damn, damn, damn, dammit! Celia, you can't treat everything as a joke! This is important! I love you. I love you. I love you" (my, how men like the sound of that. Don't be fooled, it doesn't mean a thing).
I smiled at him. "Then maybe I love you too."
And suddenly he wasn't mad. That was so damn easy. And I really was in love with George. He was the son of God after all.
Jack sent me letters.
How are you? I am fine. It's been very sunny here lately, and nice, though I miss you. I'm sure I'll be getting out soon and I'll be so happy to see you. I wish you'd visit sometime, but I guess it's too far to come.
Love Jack
Dear Celia,
Pretty electrifying stuff, huh? I didn't write back, I couldn't think of anything dull enough. I didn't visit, I'd done my loony time. And that was the best I've found outside of George.
I sort of miss the funny farm, it's always better than prison. Still, it's not the first time I've been in jail, and I would say it won't be the last time if I thought I was ever going to get out.
I remember the first time I was institutionalized. This was a few years ago. It's really sort of funny, which is what I told the judge, but judges don't have anything remotely resembling a sense of humor. I was in a bar, I don't remember what it was called, it was just a bar. Anyway, it had been a really lousy day. I had this job as a holistic masseuse and some guy had come in with rubber underwear and wanted to make it with me, and I was really grossed out by just the idea of someone not appreciating that there is a difference between a holistic massage and a forty dollar blow job. So I told him, you're eighty and stupid looking, and I'm really grossed out. We had to close the center for two days to let the bad vibes air out.
So I was sitting in the bar. I was releasing this steady stream of hostility into the air, which usually protects you from people, except for the real insensitive. In this case one of the real insensitive sat down next to me and started hitting on me. He was 220 pounds of insensitivity and he just would not go away. I asked him nicely. I said "Would you please get away from me, you're getting on my nerves." He thought I was playing hard to get. Then I said "Please go away or I will be forced to kill you." He thought I was making a joke, so I hit him with a convenient bar stool. He said "Hey," and that made me really mad so I grabbed a handy bottle and swung it at him. Being somewhat upset, I explained how I felt about the situation. "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" I explained. "I'm sending out a lot of negativity right know, can't you feel that?! You are interfering with my release of negativity!"
The judge didn't think any of this was funny, and said that considering my history of emotional instability it would be in the best interest of society for me to be confined to a mental institution. Men always stick together. That judge was just trying to legitimize man's habit of hitting on negativity filled women in bars. The system is corrupt.
This so called "history of emotional instability" all had to do with George. Society has never forgiven me for chaining myself to the White House fence and demanding Nixon recognize George as his personal savior. Oh sure, people laughed, but look what became of Dick.
"Your honor," I said, "how can you call me crazy? You're the one who's perpetuating a system and a society that is in total irrelevancy to the needs of the individual. I'm the sanest person in this room." My lawyer told me to shut up. My lawyer requested that I be gagged, but the judge said it needn't come to that. I hit my lawyer with a briefcase. It was a fun trial.
They like giving you drugs at mental places. But they don't give you the right ones. "Where's the acid, man, how 'bout some heroin?" I asked the doctor. But they kept that for themselves. I don't know what the hell they gave me, nothing terrific. I'd just beat up some guy with a bottle, I guess they have special drugs for that.
There was an interesting side effect to it all. I was just going to bed when it first happened.
"Hello," said a voice in my head.
"Hello," I replied. I didn't say hello out loud, I just thought it. I figured if someone could put a voice in my mind it could also hear my thoughts. I'm no fool.
"How ya doin'?" said the voice.
"O.K." I thought, "How about you?"
"Can't complain."
Now, I'd seen movies with people hearing voices, but the voices were never this laid back. They usually suggested hacking people to death with a hatchet or jumping off a building. But my voice was mellow. Occasionally we'd have a disagreement on something, like what to watch on TV (my voice loved the Beverly Hillbillies), but usually we just hung out and passed the time of day gossiping. Then Susan came.
By this time I had been released as sane and I was sitting in a movie theater watching Dr. Zchivago when I suddenly heard "God this is boring!" This was a voice inside my head -- but it wasn't my voice. My voice said "Shush."
"Who you tellin' to shush, man," said the stranger. "I don't want to see a god damn Russian soap opera!"
"Soap opera!" exclaimed my voice. "This is a movie of sweep and power. What's wrong with you girl?"
"Will the two of you shut up," I thought, "I'm trying to watch the movie."
"It's not my fault!. She started it."
"She started it! She started it!" mimicked the stranger. "God you're childish."
"I don't care who's fault it is. If you don't both shut up this instant I'm going to check myself back into the hospital and you'll both be jolted out of my head by ten thousand volts."
That shut them up for a while, but they argued all the way home.
Now that there were two of them they had to have names so I could address them individually. I named the first voice Lou Ann Poindexter and the second Susan Patricia Abercrombie, a.k.a. Sassy Susie. They had a love hate relationship. Some days they'd be so happy together, giggling, telling jokes, talking about guys, just having fun. But then there'd be these horrible arguments, screaming, spitting. One day Lou Ann cracked.
"I can't live like this anymore!" she screamed. "It's too much!"
I heard a shot in my head. Susie screamed and then just sort of gurgled. I heard a second shot. After that they were both gone.
But I digress.
Phantom's first collection of printed poems was mimeographed by herself and sold on the street. She called the collection "Poems To Read When You've Read Everything Else In The House And Are To Lazy To Go Out And Buy Another Book." It's unlikely that any copies still exist, but I did meet someone who had once bought the booklet, and knew a couple of poems by heart. Her favorite is this one:
The woman who memorized that, and who swears there are exactly 19 fuck you's was a Beatnik at 15, a hippie at 25, a disco dancer at 34 ("We all fall from grace sometimes") and a criminal all through that time. Right now she's got a Mohawk. Her name's Smith, and that's all the name she's got. She claims to have borrowed over 9000 cars in her time. Not for resale or parts, you understand -- she just really, really likes cars. "I see a car and I want it," she says.Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you I'm sorryI really didn't mean it.
Suzy Q has a charm bracelet. It has cute little animals on it. It has a little heart that's got "l ve o" on one side and "I o Y u" on the other, and when you spin it fast it reads "I Love You." It has a little car, a Model T. One day the car disappeared.
We all knew Smith had taken it. Since Suzy Q never takes off that bracelet we admired Smith's guts, and since it was Suzy Q's bracelet we all kept as far away from Smith as possible.
"I want my car back," Suzy Q told Smith.
"Hey" said Smith (people from Brooklyn always say "Hey" and Smith is from Brooklyn), "I don't have your car."
Suzy Q picked up Smith and threw her thirty feet. She would've gone farther if not for the wall.
"Hey!" said Smith hotly.
Suzy Q walked over to where Smith was sprawled. "I want my car back."
"Hey," Smith said lightly, "it was just a joke. I don't want your car." She had it on a piece of string around her neck. "See, no harm done."
Suzy Q calmly attached the car to her bracelet and drifted away. Smith slumped against the wall watching her bruises change from tan to blue to black and red blotches. She didn't move for an hour.
"Can you walk?" I said.
"Hey, I can take it. You think I can't take it?"
"I think you can take it Smith," I replied. "I'm just not sure if you can walk."
"Me neither kid. I been working up some courage, but I don't want to try it just yet."
There's no denying it, jail's got some lively moments. But I could do without it.
I have been essentially reading every periodical in the prison library looking for traces of Phantom. I have written letters to every poet who has lived in New York and to dozens of poetry journal editors. I have written letters to Phantom herself, but have as of yet had no reply. I am managing to piece together her life bit by bit. I am now prepared to begin the writing of this book.