refuge

I'm telling you this in confidence, because I think I can trust you. Strike that, I should say I feel like I ought to trust you. We've known each other for over a year now, and if I can't trust you, then I can't trust anyone, least of all myself. I'm impotent, of course. That was to be expected, according to the doctors. Not that such considerations have weighed on my mind since this whole thing started. To my surprise, sex doesn't matter. It hasn't really been a downside; in fact, I might say it's just another distraction I've shed, like so many others. I might say that, and a week ago or a month ago I might have believed it. Strike that. I would have been certain of it. I can't be certain of anything now. When I was a child, I used to build plastic models – aeroplanes, space ships, tanks, you name it. I would sit for hours in the basement, kneeling on the concrete, hunched over minuscule plastic pieces, carefully cut from their frames and glued with a solvent so toxic my nose ran and my eyes watered. I would work until my bladder was bursting. When I could bear the pressure no longer I would lurch to my feet with knees creaking and legs as dead as wood. Sorry, I'm trying to say that even as a child freakish concentration came naturally. I've always known how to shut out what didn't interest me: schoolwork, teachers, people in general. I miss that now, I miss being able to concentrate. Every medicine has its side effects. I could recite a laundry list of drugs, minor and major side effects and LDs 50. I don't know why I know that. I don't think it was part of my job. "LD" stands for "lethal dose", how much of a drug will kill fifty-percent of your experimental cohort. Don't write that down. I told you this was confidential. It's the details which matter. Just assembling my models wasn't enough. Each one had to have fragile decals applied by scalpel, and careful painting to achieve just the right level of detailed weathering. I could work for hours … I said that already. But I was never satisfied with the result. The olive drab paint would be too shiny, or the flecks of silver enamel – trying to make metal edges look worn by tiny feet — looked gaudy. Eventually, I would have to abandon my work, leaving it to gather dust on the shelf across from my bed, from which I could examine my flawed handiwork. There was a point to that story. When the medication started, I was told to expect changes in cognition, which was tautological considering that was the whole point. One takes a mind altering drug to alter one's mind. The psychiatrist told me that while my fear of what lay ahead was natural, healthy even, in my state of mind, I couldn't be relied upon to make rigorous decisions. That was before the medicine. Of course you remember that; you were the one who told me. In fact, you were the one who recommended me to the program. We must've known each other longer than a year, then. Not that I'm assigning blame. The decision was still mine, even if it wasn't trustworthy. Desperation burns away irrelevancies, and lends a certainty to the choices which remain. Joining the program was really the only option, and regardless of everything else, I should thank you. I seem to recall these conversations are recorded. So much for confidentiality. Still, I hope you can keep a secret. Not about my flaccid penis, that's already been well-documented, as has the numbness and the headaches. I assume it's been documented. I've done my best to be honest during our interviews. The acuity tests. They were fun at first. I've always been proud of my intelligence. Vain about the brain. The headaches were so bad at first, I thought there must have been a tumour in my head. I mustn't have been the only one; all the fMRIs and PET scans: more than the test protocol dictated. The radiologists were unreadable as they slid me into their torpedo tubes. I remember sitting in the control room once, after being wheeled out. I could see the scans, and when I closed my eyes, the shadows on screen resolved into a picture, a model of my brain. I knew without being told. No tumours. No tumours, but something was changing. Something interesting. I don't believe in hope. Getting sick in the first place taught me the futility of that emotion. So when the tests showed an arrest in the disease, I didn't feel excited, but it was intensely interesting. I did manage to feel proud. Foolishly proud that a head full of chemicals was not only halting the progressive neuronal degeneration, but possibly reversing it. As if hard work and force of will somehow determined the right constitution for being a successful guinea pig. The point of my story. From earlier, about the models. I destroyed them. Every one. The space shuttle burned up on reentry; the battleship sank; the tank took a direct hit. I had a chemistry set and a book explaining how to build fireworks from common household items. The imperfect models were obliterated. I remember the work. The occupational therapist suggested a job as part of my rehabilitation from the sickness and the treatment. It was obvious to me even then that this was no arbitrary job. The details are a little vague now, but I remember running a program to assemble protein chains — not exactly a sheltered workshop. The work was interesting, if not entirely engaging. The computer got in the way as much as it helped. I think we made some progress. We may have done some good. It was about then the tingling started. The pins and needles were distracting. I recall I was mostly relieved when the tingling turned to numbness. It was easier to concentrate on the proteins. By then it didn't matter whether I could type or hold a mouse. It was easier and faster to turn the molecules around in my head. I'm certain we made some progress; I must have eliminated at least 100 dead ends. I remember when mother visited. I think it's best she hasn't returned. I don't think I did her much good. I'm not much for conversation. I don't care about the weather; I don't go outside. Did you know I learned Hungarian? A bit of Portuguese too. Most of the cleaners in my wing are from Hungary. I learned their language by accident. Can't speak a word, but I could tell you every skerrick of gossip. Weddings have always bored me, but listening to them talk endlessly about their sons and daughters drives me to distraction. That's what I mean about concentration. It's gone. The brain works, you've seen enough of that already, but I can't stay focused. Nothing seems to matter. So mother doesn't visit, and no one calls. I infer that people feel insulted when I find them boring. It's not only my hands and feet which have gone numb. The term is “flat affect”. But you know that already. You're the psychiatrist. There was something I wanted to tell you, something secret. Perhaps you can erase the tape. There's only one copy. Even if not, I'm counting on you. You've been with me since the beginning. Without you, and the program, I'd be dead — or worse. Thank you. I'm alive, and thanks to the treatment, I'm smarter than your average cripple. And numb. Lean closer. I love you. I hate you. I don't care.
TRACK 01 "Atrophy," The Antlers INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "PTSD," Grails INDEX: 07:33:20 
TRACK 03 "Scatterheart," Björk INDEX: 14:15:57 
TRACK 04 "The Earthquake That Frees Prisoners," Gang Gang Dance INDEX: 20:51:27 
TRACK 05 "Tanned," Arab Strap INDEX: 31:58:67 
TRACK 06 "Providence," Godspeed You! Black Emperor INDEX: 38:30:59