Monday, November 22, 2004
I had a nap this afternoon. It wasn't exactly refreshing. Here's what happened:
First, imagine sinking into your backbrain, a lovely fatigue caressing your whole body, the god of sleep gently licking your eyelids.
The scene: A large mental hospital in an ancient manor house surrounded by a beautiful park. But the rooms and corridors are gloomy and the furniture sparse, filthy and institutional. I wake up in a small room tied to an iron bed. A cheerful nurse with Phyllis Schafly's face bends over me and asks:"Are we feeling any better yet?" I can't answer, they've done something to my vocal cords.
Then I'm released and I wonder around the hospital. I meet a young male doctor with a crackerjaw and a white coat, and he reassures me that everybody in the hospital are completely free to come and go, free to do whatever they want. I try to leave the building, but every time I reach the door it turns into a crackerjaw.
Then we are having lunch. The other patients are screaming and some stare into the corners with empty eyes, a mouth dribbling a continuous stream of blood. The food is horrible: all little pink eyeballs, and they all sing a psalm in praise of god. I refuse to eat and a long tube (like a gas station one) is attached to my ear and someone presses the switch.
Then I'm floating in midair and see a vast, enormous fat man walk towards me, smiling and nodding. As he passes, he says:"So another one with the east coast elite disease!"
I have to stop following the U.S. politics so closely.