by Brody Bond
I wanted to experiment.
I wanted to investigate my mind.
I think therefore I am? I guess so. But we are not just our minds. We are our bodies too. And anything I want for my mind, I need my body’s help to achieve. My body is my mind’s advocate.
My body must now become a necessary conspirator to bring my mind to the dis-place where I know I can observe myself outside of myself. If that’s even possible, we’ll find out.
I’ve learned that much of what we call irony could often just be called fitting. As such, all irony has become a symptom of truth for me.
So, I’ve decided to turn my body into an adversary for my experience. Ironically, fittingly, my body would be my advocate by being my adversary. My senses disrupted, my perception untrusted.
I set out. Closed my door for the last time. Locked it. Threw the key in a storm drain.
Fasting and solitude and silence and secrecy. This is what’s ahead. These are my means, and I can no longer choose them. I am bound by them. Choice is dead.
Can one experience a primal existence in a non-primal context?
And what exactly is a relationship, anyway?
Cities clarify and distort everything I want to hold dear. Place. Position. Economy. Community. The way things ought to be, the way things are, the way things can be, and the way things will be. Hope and fear and freedom and duty, all defined and redefined by this city perpetually. Oh, the names we give things!
I would now be a prisoner to this city. I will absorb it. Be absorbed by it.
Remove insulation. Remove history. Kill expectation. Kill the story. Wisdom comes only by fascination, and there will always be temptation. And I would feel it. All.
If scarcity creates value, I would be rich. Or die trying.
My name is Eve. This is the start.
# # # #