He had been sitting, tied to chair, suspended in mid-air, above a massive bucket of water for more than twenty-four hours. His feet felt like they were about to fall off, due to all the water that they had been doused in. Whatever conclusions or opinions he could muster the strength to utter all seemed like bullshit. “Mr. Valmot, you have indeed violated some truths.” “I don’t think you have a sense of what that entails. I am a free man.” “You’re nothing but a number, Mr. Valmont. You only think that you are free.” “Is this some new Inquisition? What on earth did I do to you?” “I think if the Council wills it, you will die tonight. Are you hungry? What are you in the mood for?” “Are you going to kill me? For real? This must be some joke.” “Don’t worry, it won’t be quick. It will be a long, drawn out process.” “I think you have some crazy plans for my life then.” “We’re glad you have a sense of humor. That is where you’re going.” The interrogator pointed into the rictus of darkened cooridor; the accused then said: “This isn’t very funny. Tell my wife I love her. Tell my mistress it was she that I wept for in the hills.” Some people who suffer from severe depression can’t get off Facebook and desire an electrode implanted behind their ear, so they can be hooked up to a machine at any time after an appointment, given a plastic mouth guard, given their 1-2-3 countdown, given their chance to get their brain stimulated in any way possible that thwarts depression. I have seen the ocean, man. I also saw that freeman die. I have experienced love in the hills, but no one cares. My father works in robotics----electrical power distribution. He told me not to go for the EST. He told me to never sign a dotted line that allows me link up to a machine that attempts to cure my pain. If I feel depressed, I will go to the ocean. I will speak with friends. Even if EST has helped a little, as I shook there, for that half an hour, such a prescription from a shrink only further institutionalizes my subjectivity, breaks the Hippocratic Oath. It can scratch out my eighth amendment rights, set the pretext for U.S. torture. And yet I live in this box now. It is a ghost box, but no one knows its name except those who have been inside it. It mangles my suspicions as well as my name; it achieves solidarity with wisdom, as if that were even real. I will pull myself now out of here. I will go for a stroll and never look back at the ghost box in the same way again. I will simply disappear for a while, until my senses coupled with my conceptions give rise to something new, that is to say, far removed from the council that interrogates me on a daily basis and attempts to thwart my freedom, as if the lodged in mouthpiece were enough to absorb the shock that I am not ever really spoken for, or rather not allowed to have a say in my own destiny. I’d rather die than eat more bolts of lightning. I’d rather smoke cigarettes while my Venus-fly-trap devours meat.
Posted on: Sat, 10 Aug 2013 02:42:47 +0000
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