The Cerebral Catalyst

Did they break you down, big boy, a little bit anyway, chiseled away some of what you were with their harsh declarations, punished you with an onslaught of theories and their determination to glean the facts, leaned on you with their stone heavy morality? Did they keep you in that small, stuffy room with nothing but plain dull walls to look at — for hours? Yes, I'm familiar with the technique, having been trapped in that bleak and cold legal territory myself, that place where you are indeed alone, realizing you have been "disappeared" for the time being, and without a clue as to when you will be allowed to exist again as something other than a number, a file. It's to be expected, dear boy, when being processed in that dastardly fashion, all the typical representatives of the powers that be with their hard gazes and barbed tongues, well-trained in accordance with the bureaucratic handbooks, intimidating in their methods (it is all about making you feel smaller than them, in the wrong, ready to confess); it is bound to wither even the strongest. You are up against the System, an individual and, in the end, dispensable. You realize that — the sheer numbing force of it — when they have you tucked away in the bowels of their well-regulated nightmare. That's when your hard façade isn't enough; you feel the official hand exploring your guts, probing for your secrets (there are no secrets from us, pal), your weaknesses, your tender Achilles. They have inspectors and sergeants, officers and bullies on command, heads of this and commanders of that, and they all come parading past your vulnerable self, for you to see that Power, to know it is there just outside the door and ready to be summoned, utilized. The spirit of Winston Smith laughs long and hard, knowingly, in your head. You're about to be turned slowly on the spit, boy, and it's all above board and legal. We make sure that we put on the gloves.

It is only natural that you crumble a bit as the Flintstone-thick wheels slowly grind, for your prior knowledge has come from books, movies and secondhand reports, and now here is your darling self on the burner, your thoughts bubbling, uneasiness in every breath. The Powers That Be, and you laugh to yourself, knowing that at last you are truly confronting them. THEY have picked you out of the multitudes and now have you pinned to a chair that's hard enough and under bright enough lights to recall school days from the memory files. Yes, you were under control of a system then, too, or they wanted you to be. You fought it then, in any little way you could, and you'll try to do it now. No, you won't have all of me, you scream, in true Winston Smith spirit. I'll hide some of me somewhere, and draw on that from time to time, to sustain me. You won't even know it's behind that little corner (in the john, if necessary, tucked behind the tank), that small part of me not picked up by the cameras. Yes, you will keep something back from the ever inquiring enemy, just enough out of range of the 24-hour Eye. Your last and desperate way of saying: fuck you.

Play it out as long as you can, son. Keep trying to put a little of your spin on the game; you have imagination on your side. You've always had that, and you see what a blessing it can be in certain, unpleasant situations. As long as you have access to that you can save at least some part of that which you would call you, even let it loose on occasion behind the serious, unmoving muscles of your face. They can look for you on the flip side of this old and tired song.

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posted 09.04.06.

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