Monday, November 7, 2011
Tell me, what is Section 5? Not in a sci-fi sense, but that other sense: the one where people blame HARRP for everything and insist every UFO is extra-terrestrial in origin. That sense which means common sense was thrown out the window and the point to the quest - to use scientific reason - has been replaced with religious propaganda. I'm not sure what set it off, but last night was a night thinking of you my old master. I don't think of you often, and when I do it's as if I'm surrounded by your scent. It hangs inside my nasal cavity and my face with an orange color, almost palpable but completely unreal. I get jumpy, and as I try to sleep I find myself constantly watching the bedroom door in the dark afraid you'll walk through it. Conflicting emotions collide with me: the one side eager to go back to that pit and work for a while, and the other wholly terrified of you. But I'm truly not sure why I'm afraid, because the associated memories are mere impressions I write about during the day. I become fearful just thinking of the memory of the memories: these things that have made others cry. But master, I am told I must love you and bow my knee to you in a red fit of loyalty. It's an urge, it's a program, but my waking mind knows this is fabricated. It's not like giving birth, where the time to push is natural and happens without thought. This is an outside will: it has color, feeling, weight, and it's set subliminally to make you think it's instinct. Well, instinct has no flavor. So the memories play on my boredom, and the intelligent part of me reminds, "You lost interest when I lost my youth." That was longer ago than many people think. Therein do I spent my war-induced night alone. I struggle to admit it somedays, as if I'm never supposed to. Maybe it's a lie, but its a lie I've struggled with for almost forty years - before I knew the source of the scent. I almost fall asleep but wake up every hour, thinking you are in the room. I cannot rest when you are nearby. It's not safe. While the other part of me is afraid to rest lest she miss anything. Master, my master, there are those who said you were cruel. I never found you to be that way. You may call it acclimation if you wish, but this is just how you were. I could smell how the others were to you in your mind: this is your culture. We only blame things we do not understand nor agree with. If everyone decided your way was acceptable, the mood would change. O master, I'm thankful to you as well for allowing me to be close, to learn, to go where others never could. While they stank in cages I roamed free and brought them their supper. Their hay. Because you favored me for whatever reason. Or maybe I was just lucky. There is my loyalty - a loyalty born of a black princess, but it was there all along. I cannot remember if ever I ran from you. It seems to me I was sent somewhere else for the next phase, and all thoughts of rebellion are for the books I write and never reality. I want to remember you better, wondering if these implanted thoughts would change. Or would she change the implanted thoughts. A couple of weeks ago I had a dream where I rode with others in little railcart that were familiar to me until we reached the hospital complex, where my handler was waiting. He took me to the side with some others where we tested new inventions that are about to come out. The invention I tested was a special pair of glasses. He listened when I complained to him on what I was doing, because I'm more accustomed to creating the stuff not testing it like some half-useful cow. He placated me by saying okay, and then called me his gem. I was special, I was amazing, I was his gem and the most important person on the team. I asked him why, because I didn't Work there. He said, "Welcome to Section 5." The amusing thing is through the entire dream I knew I was going to work, but because I work in comics I thought that's what I was going to handle. What a conflict inside of me when it turned out to be engineering. I knew it. I handled it. But I was still disappointed.