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Authors: Mark Mirabello
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masturbation on her pajama bottoms.
‘Seduction is worse than rape,’ Lyssa mumbled over and over again. ‘Seduction corrupts the mind—rape merely pollutes the body....’
On the far side of the room was an old man who believed he was a prophet. A religious fanatic—he had not washed since his baptism—the old man claimed that self-induced head injuries gave him mystical experiences.
‘Jesus—the Judaic avatar—is coming back,’ he declared. ‘After killing all the sinners in an apocalyptic `final solution,’ he will herd the faithful into a totalitarian paradise. His reign—a kind of `Christian Reich’—will last one thousand years.’
The old man laughed—he was clearly looking forward to eschatological collapse—and then he slammed his head against the floor.
‘Heaven will be perfect bliss,’ he continued. ‘A splendid utopia, it will be a place without crime and without choices.’
What The Psychiatrist Said To Me
An arrogant man—apparently some sort of mental health worker—took an interest in me. An ugly individual—he was short, squat, and blond—he had flaccid lips and rotting teeth.
‘You were mumbling in your sleep last night,’ said the ugly man, as he placed his hand on my shoulder in a patronizing fashion. ‘You said something about `the master species.’’
I hesitated to speak with the ugly man—I could see the denial, ridicule, and scorn in his smile—so I stared at the floor. Silence is best, I thought. This man could be a beast in disguise, so I will act deranged, catatonic, and mute.
‘You may suffer from Munchausen Syndrome,’ said the ugly man, who ignored my effort to ignore him. ‘That’s a compulsion to make false reports about personal victimization.’
I must say nothing, I thought. He is obviously a psychiatrist— psychiatrists are immune to logic—so I must show no sign of recognition, warmth, or self-pity.
‘Or,’ said the ugly man, ‘perhaps you are having a paranoid delusion. You are really convinced that subterranean predators—creatures infesting hidden tunnels—are attacking us from the bowels of the Earth.’
Silence, I thought. Oblivious to the world, I must stare with vacant eyes.
The ugly man smiled. His wrinkled face was twisted with sarcasm.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘In the safety of this place, you will heal. Here, no one is sickened by freedom.’
Thoughts About Reality
That night, while resting on a flea-infested bed at the shelter, I thought about everything the ugly man had said.
Initially I thought he was a fool—a smug idiot. His mind, I thought, was rusted shut by prejudice.
It was raining outside, and the roar of thunder filled the room. Outside, sinister flashes of lightning blazed across the horizon.
But could I be delusional? I thought. Could it all have been a dream? To babies, the dream state and the waking state are equally real. Could I have confused nightmare with reality?
Lightning struck a tree outside. The tree, which fell with a great thud, began to smolder and burn.
No, I thought, if a thing causes pain, it is real.
I stood up and walked over to a window. In my reflection in the glass, I could see the blood clots in my sunken eyes.
We are what we remember, I thought. Memory is all that matters.
The lightning flashed again, illuminating the room. In the brief moment of brightness, I imagined I could see my father. Standing near a stagnant pool of whitish liquid, he was leering at me.
Yes, I thought. Memory is all that matters. We must not escape from history....
Chapter V Reading The Mysterious Manuscript From The Old Womans Home, I Learn About The Origin Of TheMonsters
‘Man has no body distinct from his soul; for that called body is a portion of soul discerned by the five senses....’ William Blake (1757-1827)
‘The gods eat other gods.’
Maori Chief (19th century)
The Secrets Of The Book
While staying in the asylum, I studied the mysterious manuscript I had stolen from
‘Seduction is worse than rape,’ Lyssa mumbled over and over again. ‘Seduction corrupts the mind—rape merely pollutes the body....’
On the far side of the room was an old man who believed he was a prophet. A religious fanatic—he had not washed since his baptism—the old man claimed that self-induced head injuries gave him mystical experiences.
‘Jesus—the Judaic avatar—is coming back,’ he declared. ‘After killing all the sinners in an apocalyptic `final solution,’ he will herd the faithful into a totalitarian paradise. His reign—a kind of `Christian Reich’—will last one thousand years.’
The old man laughed—he was clearly looking forward to eschatological collapse—and then he slammed his head against the floor.
‘Heaven will be perfect bliss,’ he continued. ‘A splendid utopia, it will be a place without crime and without choices.’
What The Psychiatrist Said To Me
An arrogant man—apparently some sort of mental health worker—took an interest in me. An ugly individual—he was short, squat, and blond—he had flaccid lips and rotting teeth.
‘You were mumbling in your sleep last night,’ said the ugly man, as he placed his hand on my shoulder in a patronizing fashion. ‘You said something about `the master species.’’
I hesitated to speak with the ugly man—I could see the denial, ridicule, and scorn in his smile—so I stared at the floor. Silence is best, I thought. This man could be a beast in disguise, so I will act deranged, catatonic, and mute.
‘You may suffer from Munchausen Syndrome,’ said the ugly man, who ignored my effort to ignore him. ‘That’s a compulsion to make false reports about personal victimization.’
I must say nothing, I thought. He is obviously a psychiatrist— psychiatrists are immune to logic—so I must show no sign of recognition, warmth, or self-pity.
‘Or,’ said the ugly man, ‘perhaps you are having a paranoid delusion. You are really convinced that subterranean predators—creatures infesting hidden tunnels—are attacking us from the bowels of the Earth.’
Silence, I thought. Oblivious to the world, I must stare with vacant eyes.
The ugly man smiled. His wrinkled face was twisted with sarcasm.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘In the safety of this place, you will heal. Here, no one is sickened by freedom.’
Thoughts About Reality
That night, while resting on a flea-infested bed at the shelter, I thought about everything the ugly man had said.
Initially I thought he was a fool—a smug idiot. His mind, I thought, was rusted shut by prejudice.
It was raining outside, and the roar of thunder filled the room. Outside, sinister flashes of lightning blazed across the horizon.
But could I be delusional? I thought. Could it all have been a dream? To babies, the dream state and the waking state are equally real. Could I have confused nightmare with reality?
Lightning struck a tree outside. The tree, which fell with a great thud, began to smolder and burn.
No, I thought, if a thing causes pain, it is real.
I stood up and walked over to a window. In my reflection in the glass, I could see the blood clots in my sunken eyes.
We are what we remember, I thought. Memory is all that matters.
The lightning flashed again, illuminating the room. In the brief moment of brightness, I imagined I could see my father. Standing near a stagnant pool of whitish liquid, he was leering at me.
Yes, I thought. Memory is all that matters. We must not escape from history....
Chapter V Reading The Mysterious Manuscript From The Old Womans Home, I Learn About The Origin Of TheMonsters
‘Man has no body distinct from his soul; for that called body is a portion of soul discerned by the five senses....’ William Blake (1757-1827)
‘The gods eat other gods.’
Maori Chief (19th century)
The Secrets Of The Book
While staying in the asylum, I studied the mysterious manuscript I had stolen from
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