Post by Jack of Blades on Jan 25, 2007 20:31:43 GMT -5
Here I sit. Waiting in another mahogany cage for my judgment. Insane or sane. Capable or handicapped. And yet, in spite of all the adjectives my persona is about to be subjected to, my only concern is turning the doctor's Rolodex so that there is an exact divide of cards between where the metal frame crosses over the top. Much like having to tap the cards, launch them into the bowl on annoyance, this organisation was a necessity for the universe, my reality, to subsist.
The door turns and into the room enters an elderly, and possibly, wisely man of cardigans and tweed. With him, he carries a series of paper dossiers which represent the productive interviews he has had with other members of the roster as they come to the conclusion that the sequins on their pants represent lost tears and other such effluence. His wall decorates itself with stories and paper representation of his counseling abilities and emotional detection. And, even though his wallpaper is made up of university condonations, I doubt his ability to weave his way through my straggled mentality and find some resolution. Maybe it's his preference of referring to himself as a psychologist as opposed to his true occupation. Maybe it's the styrofam sculpture of a brain annotated by the doctor with one segment referred to as the 'labia.' Maybe, and this is the proposal with my strongest conviction, is that his career has culminated in him giving specialist support to steroid-addled powerhouses who suppress sensitivity by wearing tight leather and showering in single-gender bathing-rooms. Maybe.
"Name?"
"I am Charon, waiting to test the pathway to the otherside of existence and guide others preparing the jump."
"I'm going to guess that you're Jack? Of Blades?"
He rests the documents on his desk and swivels in his chair around to the contrasting tin cabinet behind him. He draws his eyesight down past the draw labelled 'A-H', further down past one denoted 'I-P', ignoring the penultimate draw known as 'Q-Z' and to the bottom draw which is used exclusively for storing the mental stresses of 'Jack of Blades.' He withdraws a large bundle of papers from said draw kept together by a national reserve of staples and a plethora of rubber bands that makes me feel ever so unique.
"You should have come to see me sooner."
I have no reason to respond.
"So, I'll just explain the process. Basically, I'd like to ask you some questions..."
"I'm in a desert, walking along in the sand when all of a sudden, I look down. Maybe I'm fed up; maybe I want to be by myself. I look down and I see a tortoise. It is crawling towards my person. I reach down and flip the tortoise over on its back. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over but it can't. Not without my help; but I'm not helping. Why is that? Would you like to know about my mother?"
"Do you have a gun?"
"No."
"Then perhaps later."
"Look", he offers me some shared ground. "I can understand whether you are nervous coming here to talk to me but I deal with everyone you work with whether it be hyper-competitiveness."
He moves Thunder's file to the other side of his desk.
"...to crippling narcissism"
He moves Alliance of Violence's file to the other side of the desk.
"...to copraphilia."
He moves Danny 'The Vagrant' Vice's file to the other side of the desk.
"...to good ol' fashioned latent homosexuality."
He moves Skyler Striker's file to the other side of the desk. After attempting to induce me into a state of comfort and intimacy, I pay no heed as I stare past all the degrees and accolades, at the solitary 'human' image hung on his wall. A smiling woman taken in sepiatone. A mother? A sister? A mistress? There are an infinite number of tales and epics that explain the true reasoning behind this graphic, this stolen moment of time, being imprinted and chosen to represent my confidante's private side in his inner sanctum's centre. And all I can ponder, is why the picture is crooked. I move and realign it bringing a consummate degree of symmetry back into the room.
"Each morning since the advisory entity has been in my station, he has rescued me from the depths of my bathtub as I held my body below and witnessed the last bubbles exit my respiratory system. He thinks that he has saved me from liquid Hari-Kari but instead, I have been trying to see my life flash before me as is common within all accounts of saved lives. I wanted to isolate the moment that led me to this point in amongst a series of actions and remarks that have provided this outlook. I'm trying to keep sacred said moment so that if it does happen, if the objective is completed, and I feel that glimmer of hope as I wear the operative golden belt, I will know that everything that has made all those monkeys clap, all those inferiors remain in awe will be fabricated. And I will be there, nothing more than a title."
"If so, if you're really wanting to keep onto this hideous perspective of life and cruel demeanour as opposed to sacrificing your pride and persona, then you need to find something so magnificent, so darkly cruel, so corrupt that you know everything you've been calling out is true. You need to find that someone or something that is nihilistic, cruel and dire, something that mirrors you. So that if you do lift that title, you can look at that object, that contradiction against will, and know that your words are truthful." That was his prescription.
And I think of her...
The door turns and into the room enters an elderly, and possibly, wisely man of cardigans and tweed. With him, he carries a series of paper dossiers which represent the productive interviews he has had with other members of the roster as they come to the conclusion that the sequins on their pants represent lost tears and other such effluence. His wall decorates itself with stories and paper representation of his counseling abilities and emotional detection. And, even though his wallpaper is made up of university condonations, I doubt his ability to weave his way through my straggled mentality and find some resolution. Maybe it's his preference of referring to himself as a psychologist as opposed to his true occupation. Maybe it's the styrofam sculpture of a brain annotated by the doctor with one segment referred to as the 'labia.' Maybe, and this is the proposal with my strongest conviction, is that his career has culminated in him giving specialist support to steroid-addled powerhouses who suppress sensitivity by wearing tight leather and showering in single-gender bathing-rooms. Maybe.
"Name?"
"I am Charon, waiting to test the pathway to the otherside of existence and guide others preparing the jump."
"I'm going to guess that you're Jack? Of Blades?"
He rests the documents on his desk and swivels in his chair around to the contrasting tin cabinet behind him. He draws his eyesight down past the draw labelled 'A-H', further down past one denoted 'I-P', ignoring the penultimate draw known as 'Q-Z' and to the bottom draw which is used exclusively for storing the mental stresses of 'Jack of Blades.' He withdraws a large bundle of papers from said draw kept together by a national reserve of staples and a plethora of rubber bands that makes me feel ever so unique.
"You should have come to see me sooner."
I have no reason to respond.
"So, I'll just explain the process. Basically, I'd like to ask you some questions..."
"I'm in a desert, walking along in the sand when all of a sudden, I look down. Maybe I'm fed up; maybe I want to be by myself. I look down and I see a tortoise. It is crawling towards my person. I reach down and flip the tortoise over on its back. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over but it can't. Not without my help; but I'm not helping. Why is that? Would you like to know about my mother?"
"Do you have a gun?"
"No."
"Then perhaps later."
"Look", he offers me some shared ground. "I can understand whether you are nervous coming here to talk to me but I deal with everyone you work with whether it be hyper-competitiveness."
He moves Thunder's file to the other side of his desk.
"...to crippling narcissism"
He moves Alliance of Violence's file to the other side of the desk.
"...to copraphilia."
He moves Danny 'The Vagrant' Vice's file to the other side of the desk.
"...to good ol' fashioned latent homosexuality."
He moves Skyler Striker's file to the other side of the desk. After attempting to induce me into a state of comfort and intimacy, I pay no heed as I stare past all the degrees and accolades, at the solitary 'human' image hung on his wall. A smiling woman taken in sepiatone. A mother? A sister? A mistress? There are an infinite number of tales and epics that explain the true reasoning behind this graphic, this stolen moment of time, being imprinted and chosen to represent my confidante's private side in his inner sanctum's centre. And all I can ponder, is why the picture is crooked. I move and realign it bringing a consummate degree of symmetry back into the room.
"Each morning since the advisory entity has been in my station, he has rescued me from the depths of my bathtub as I held my body below and witnessed the last bubbles exit my respiratory system. He thinks that he has saved me from liquid Hari-Kari but instead, I have been trying to see my life flash before me as is common within all accounts of saved lives. I wanted to isolate the moment that led me to this point in amongst a series of actions and remarks that have provided this outlook. I'm trying to keep sacred said moment so that if it does happen, if the objective is completed, and I feel that glimmer of hope as I wear the operative golden belt, I will know that everything that has made all those monkeys clap, all those inferiors remain in awe will be fabricated. And I will be there, nothing more than a title."
"If so, if you're really wanting to keep onto this hideous perspective of life and cruel demeanour as opposed to sacrificing your pride and persona, then you need to find something so magnificent, so darkly cruel, so corrupt that you know everything you've been calling out is true. You need to find that someone or something that is nihilistic, cruel and dire, something that mirrors you. So that if you do lift that title, you can look at that object, that contradiction against will, and know that your words are truthful." That was his prescription.
And I think of her...
