Inspiration From Madness

The story of “Pussy” began in my head years ago as a failed Twitter account attempt where I played the part of a naive Victorian child expressing constant concern for his nanny, whom he affectionately called “Pussy.” Since most people on Twitter aren't funny, it did not reach fruition. “Pussy” found her rejuvenation with the advent of AI-generated artwork, and with the help of my good friend Rebecca teaching me the simple process, this book’s art was born. Using the Midjourney AI Bot on the Discord app, I could prompt hundreds of unique pieces of imagery. Each new image allowed me to build the story you have in your hands today. The art is entirely in the style of the late Edward Gorey, one of his generation’s most brilliant artists and storytellers. Without his artistic influence, I would never have found the motivation to follow through with the arduous task of putting this all together. I was introduced to Gorey years before I knew his identity through the opening animation of “Mystery!” on PBS. As a child, I would make it a point to be present when my grandmother tuned in to watch, just so I could catch the title sequence. The blue-clad damsel in distress was an inspiration for Pussy, but in some ways, so was “Amelia Bedelia.” I steered myself away from the latter however, primarily because Amelia Bedelia would piss me off as a child. Likewise, I took inspiration from Dr. Seuss and Richard Scarry, in particular the manner of speech.

 

Readers may ask: “Are the Buttonhole Children evil?” To that, my answer is No. They, like real children, are the great copycats of the human world. Children mimic and recreate what they see adults do. Children are impressionable. Sure, plenty of children out there are wicked and “had it coming,” but the Buttonhole Children are not. Thinking about the moral gray area of pre and adolescent behavior, I am reminded of the novel The Children are Watching by Laird Koenig. After finishing the novel, I wondered if the five children in Koenig’s story grew up to be completely normal, moral human beings. I am sure that countless people who did terrible things as children are today sympathetic, with a compassionate moral compass. I see the same outcome with the three children I created for “Our Pussy.” Although “Ma-má” and “Pussy’s” unorthodox proclivities indeed left an impression, I see nothing wrong with summoning the dead for revenge or introducing naive young folk to occult spheres of influence.

 

“Our Pussy” is set in Victorian England. Still, I attempted to obscure the timeline a bit by having Pussy arrive at the manor in a car you might see during the reign of George V (that’s the “Downton Abbey” period for you stupid people) and having a scene where Pussy is listening to Bryan Adams and watching “Living Single,” albeit on a gramophone (like they still do over there). I used the British spelling of adjectives and such and ensured the Buttonhole Children had a constant aura of menacing sneakiness (like all British children).

 

In Victorian fashion, everything unsavory is only implied. Ma-má’s social group is the “Ladies Auxiliary,” not a coven of witches. Pussy was only ill and could have perhaps gone and stayed with a “sick, elderly aunt” to recover. Perhaps it was a congenital obstruction, preventing her from all but Sodom's Delights. Cannibalism? Never.

 

The reader may notice Pa-pá doesn’t play into the story all that much. The reason is that men generally are uninteresting characters to write about. Even Pa-pá’s strongly implied dalliance with the previous stable boy warranted only a page of narrative that still needed to be augmented with euphemisms related to the story's heroine. I’ve always found it easiest to think up and write stories where women are the heroines or antagonists. Women are complex. A female character can be fleshed out, built upon, and given an endless amount of complex layers. Female characters stem from creativity and allow the imagination to run wild and emanate in any direction. Male characters want to have sex or brood.

 

Any armchair folklore buff will notice the meaning behind the three images of the seasons changing at the end of the story. To me, the Buttonhole Marches is a quiet enclave of paganism and witchcraft in the Late Modern Period (the mid-1800s to the end of WWII). Spring/Summer shows the reader children gaily dancing around a somewhat more than suggestive May Pole; autumn has the fabled “wicker man,” which indeed holds a charred victim; and winter displays a night sky filled with the Wild Hunt; with ghosts, goblins, and witches led by local tutelary or regional deities.

 

I heavily rely on stereotypes mainly because they are funny. Ma-má and the Hag are depicted through the lens of the era’s cultural hegemony. Tessie is not only handicapped and mute—she also bites (like all handicapped individuals). A glaring lack of diversity exists in this work, as jokingly pointed out by my friend Alexandra. So first, let me stop you there: Victorian English manors were not diverse. The only diversity that existed was the economic disparity between the servants and tenants. I only feature a housekeeper—Mrs. Fubbs—because she made a decent contribution to the story.

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Spiritualism—a ridiculous, cheap imitation of Ma-má’s theological makeup and outlook, is depicted. Since Pussy (or a nanny) is a poor substitute for a mother, I made Pussy a dabbler in the fraudulent arts, contrasting with Ma-má, a most capable sorceress.  The reader should assume that “summoning the angry dead to do our bidding” was an evident influence from the children onto Pussy, gleaned from sneaking and peeking around corners of Ma-má’s chambers. This would only seem a game to the children, as we know that children tend to either discard the trappings of religious catechism or fully embrace it, pontificating and lording it over their smart-ass little friends Of Whom They Know Better Than. The former would apply to the Buttonhole Children. I like to envision the Children as pragmatic: disposing of what doesn’t work and espousing tenants such as: “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” If one can easily send the dead to wreak revenge, why not? It can be done in the privacy of your own home and makes very little mess.

 

My own beliefs play a small role in the writing of this story. In particular, the location where the story takes place. I place the site on fictional “Marches,” which are the traditional borders of a country. Borders are liminal places and represent spiritual boundaries, and I felt this was appropriate for a story that heavily depicted the more arcane and hidden sides of life.

 

As you must know, the marches were/are governed by a Marquess or “Marcher Lord” or a Marchioness, both of which rank directly below a duke or duchess. This rank in the peerage is, for the most part, the highest a non-royal hereditary peer can obtain, provided they do not marry into a royal family.

 

Finally, I would like to speak on the literary references most readers of short stories and those familiar with many famous old writers would immediately notice. And perhaps one or two are not so apparent.

 

The first reference begins with the description of Jon. As has been pointed out, Ma-má is not all that she seems to be on the surface; much to Mrs. Fubbs’ horror and chagrin, she is a witch. With that in mind, I found it necessary to salute Ira Levin, the author of Rosemary’s Baby, by stating that our dear lad, Jon, had “his father’s eyes.” I leave you with ambiguity—much how many of the conclusions to scenes in the story are ambiguous—does he have Pa-pá’s eyes, or is Jon’s paternity infernally-circumspect?

 

The second literary reference appears in the description of Wilma and requires me to shed a bit more light on her character and disposition. Wilma is an intensely imaginative child who suffers flights of fancy and is easily overcome with trance-like states when excessive excitement is triggered. Wilma sees herself as the country’s chief executive ostler or grooms woman and an uncompromising, unsympathetic, authoritarian Lady. She will somehow usurp her brothers in rank and be enshrined as Marchioness of Buttonhole, come hell or high water. Hopping on her squeaky-springed rocking horse, her eyes roll back into her head as she oscillates with abandon, lost in a dream state where she is out on the fields with the land laborers and a threatening crop clenched tightly in her fist. This description should bring to mind D. H. Lawrence’s short story, “The Rocking-Horse Winner,” where a young boy uses his rocking horse to induce an orgasmic clairvoyant state to pick winners in the horse races to win his mother’s affections by appealing to her greed.

 

My third reference is probably the clearest: the bedroom with Yellow Wallpaper. Written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, “The Yellow Wallpaper” is a classic staple in introductions to American feminist literature. Nothing could be more appropriate to the sordid story of Pussy than an allusion to a room where a woman suffering from postpartum depression is sequestered as a “cure” for her “madness” and is ironically driven insane in the process to the extent of a Greek Tragedy.

 

After Pussy discovers undesirable changes in her constitution, she often becomes maniacal and self-destructive. I highlight this not because the world lacks acknowledgment of this real-world issue but because I can make a commentary of it and even reference the dramatic climax of Virginia Woolf’s life. While her life and demise are a sad tale, it does provide one with inspiration: Virginia Woolf committed suicide by filling her coat with stones and walking into a river. Pussy, years before Ms. Woolf’s death, seemed to be also haunted by the specter of melodramatic expirations and, with the expert seamstress skills any nanny would have, takes it upon herself to prepare for the inevitable.

 

My next reference is the most obscure. Many people have read and recommend Thomas Tryon’s The Other and consider it his magnum opus, but I must disagree. The Other, great as it is, does not hold a flame to Tryon’s hidden gem Harvest Home, a thrilling novel about a New Yorker family starting over in an isolated Connecticut village under the leadership of an enigmatic midwife and where curious and bizarre rituals, folklore, and a seven-year harvest tithe slowly start to take hold of their lives. Wilma declaring: “SHE HAS SEEN,” harkens back to the heart-stopping crescendo of Tryon’s novel, leaving readers desperate for the next fresh horror to encounter once they turn the page.

 

V. C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic receives a shoutout in the form of Ma-má’s “Flower Children” kept in the attic (I've given them names that give due credit to yet another literary giant, but all will be revealed in time). As a small child, my mother was, and still is, a fiend for thriller movies. Along with “Mommie Dearest,” the 1980s film “Flowers in the Attic” introduced me to a large portion of ridiculous drama and riveting wicked-mother tropes that play an integral part in my tastes in television, film, and the written word. But of course, I’ve read the book. I’ve read the entire series! And before I forget, don't let me be a fool by leaving out Andrews' only stand alone novel, My Sweet Audrina.

 

While most Americans have read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” very few likely recall the name of the lucky winner of the draw, Tessie; if you remember, Tessie was not a good sport and became unruly and verbally abusive towards her fellow townspeople; thankfully, Tessie from Buttonhole was unable to exhibit some of these behaviors and therefore didn’t make a fool of herself while playing at the manor. If her mother weren’t pecked to death by crows, she would have been proud.

 

Finally, we have Pussy sticking her head in the oven like Sylvia Plath. Although gas stoves weren’t in existence then, like with the pockets for stones, Pussy was a pioneer in efforts of at-home euthanasia.