Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Panchesco's imaginatory. Richard has the most exciting imagination of anyone I have met. When the spirit moves him and he publishes his prose I squirm in my seat. My heart beats a little faster. It is better than drugs. Today's offering was stunning. How does he do that?
Read Richard's story . It made me want to write a response. Perhaps I captured a small bit of his creativity, I don't really know.
At the observation window, I watch as the patient squirms, shrieks, thrusts his hands over his eyes to ward off the imagined venom. I turn to Dr. Vidal and watch her reaction.
“Fascinating,” she murmurs, “Does he always do this in the morning?”
‘Yes, from about eight to eight fifteen, then he abruptly stops, sobs for a few minutes with his hands held close to his eyes. Then, in a short while, he pretends to be drawing. That occupies several hours.”
"And this happens every day?”
“Yes, it has been continuous for three months.”
“Fascinating.” Vidal cocks her head to one side. The patient has begun to “draw,” one
hand balancing a “tablet,” the other a “stylus.” “How closely are you recording the movement of his hand?”
“We are not particularly focused on that. It’s just part of his overall hallucination.” She
frowns and tilts her head forward, the scarf covering her hairless scalp rubbing against the one-way glass.
“Technician?” she calls out. From behind us a white-clad psychology graduate student
appears, eager to be of use. “Focus the camera on the patient’s right hand. I want a computer analysis of the movement in real time. Let’s see what he is drawing.”
A few long, dull minutes pass as the technician feeds instructions into the mainframe. The first attempt fails, the computer following a spot to high. The third attempt meets with success, and on a white, blank computer screen lines begin to form. The image is unintelligible, a result of our catching him halfway through the process. The next drawing is fearful in its intensity, its horror, a blindingly evil scene. I gasp.
The sketch, the masterpiece- a dozen contorted worms writhing in ecstasy, holding tubular instruments from which delicately veined leaves cascaded. In the background loomed tall, jagged-toothed mountains. A bridge-like structure, from which a dozen chrysalises hang in pairs, is visible on the left. On the right is a nightmarish scrawl, the text of the patient’s hallucination. The following drawing is no better, in fact I would rank it as fouler if it was possible to quantify such a thing.
“Amazing,” Vidal says. She glances at me, amused at how pale I’ve grown. “So how is he doing that?” she asked.
"Doing what?” I feel like retching as the new drawing materializes, a chrysalis blooming
with a creature that was all openings and closings.
“He has no paper, no pen, and yet the movements of his hands and the corresponding
image that is created is perfect. Those sketches are so detailed, so intricate.” She motions toward a portion of the screen. ‘Notice how he returns to shade some portions long after he worked in that area. It’s impossible.”
“It is impossible.” I say. A deep-seated fear gnawed at me, something that had always
troubled me from the moment I met the patient.
“Or, it is not impossible, it is entirely plausible.” She looked back at the patient, who was
beginning another drawing, this one a landscape of arched rock formations upon which tall, cylindrical hives formed. The picture was brief, the written section dominating much of the space, a description of a scene found on some other world. “He’s here, and yet he thinks he is there. I’ve seen it before. Mental transportation, mental kidnapping. Handless entities- how they covet our fingers.”
“You think it is real? He’s not crazy?”
“Oh, he’s crazy all right. That’s how they get in to a mind. Sometimes you can save them, if you get into their heads in time and sever the switch. But this one has gone on to long. And now he’s ruined. A few more months of this, the cerebellum turns to mush, the eyes degrade, the voice is lost. He’ll be an interesting autopsy.” Her scarf slid back, revealing a long, sinuous scar, faint crosshatching from expertly arranged stitches.
“Any other interesting cases?”
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Read Richard's story . It made me want to write a response. Perhaps I captured a small bit of his creativity, I don't really know.
At the observation window, I watch as the patient squirms, shrieks, thrusts his hands over his eyes to ward off the imagined venom. I turn to Dr. Vidal and watch her reaction.
“Fascinating,” she murmurs, “Does he always do this in the morning?”
‘Yes, from about eight to eight fifteen, then he abruptly stops, sobs for a few minutes with his hands held close to his eyes. Then, in a short while, he pretends to be drawing. That occupies several hours.”
"And this happens every day?”
“Yes, it has been continuous for three months.”
“Fascinating.” Vidal cocks her head to one side. The patient has begun to “draw,” one
hand balancing a “tablet,” the other a “stylus.” “How closely are you recording the movement of his hand?”
“We are not particularly focused on that. It’s just part of his overall hallucination.” She
frowns and tilts her head forward, the scarf covering her hairless scalp rubbing against the one-way glass.
“Technician?” she calls out. From behind us a white-clad psychology graduate student
appears, eager to be of use. “Focus the camera on the patient’s right hand. I want a computer analysis of the movement in real time. Let’s see what he is drawing.”
A few long, dull minutes pass as the technician feeds instructions into the mainframe. The first attempt fails, the computer following a spot to high. The third attempt meets with success, and on a white, blank computer screen lines begin to form. The image is unintelligible, a result of our catching him halfway through the process. The next drawing is fearful in its intensity, its horror, a blindingly evil scene. I gasp.
The sketch, the masterpiece- a dozen contorted worms writhing in ecstasy, holding tubular instruments from which delicately veined leaves cascaded. In the background loomed tall, jagged-toothed mountains. A bridge-like structure, from which a dozen chrysalises hang in pairs, is visible on the left. On the right is a nightmarish scrawl, the text of the patient’s hallucination. The following drawing is no better, in fact I would rank it as fouler if it was possible to quantify such a thing.
“Amazing,” Vidal says. She glances at me, amused at how pale I’ve grown. “So how is he doing that?” she asked.
"Doing what?” I feel like retching as the new drawing materializes, a chrysalis blooming
with a creature that was all openings and closings.
“He has no paper, no pen, and yet the movements of his hands and the corresponding
image that is created is perfect. Those sketches are so detailed, so intricate.” She motions toward a portion of the screen. ‘Notice how he returns to shade some portions long after he worked in that area. It’s impossible.”
“It is impossible.” I say. A deep-seated fear gnawed at me, something that had always
troubled me from the moment I met the patient.
“Or, it is not impossible, it is entirely plausible.” She looked back at the patient, who was
beginning another drawing, this one a landscape of arched rock formations upon which tall, cylindrical hives formed. The picture was brief, the written section dominating much of the space, a description of a scene found on some other world. “He’s here, and yet he thinks he is there. I’ve seen it before. Mental transportation, mental kidnapping. Handless entities- how they covet our fingers.”
“You think it is real? He’s not crazy?”
“Oh, he’s crazy all right. That’s how they get in to a mind. Sometimes you can save them, if you get into their heads in time and sever the switch. But this one has gone on to long. And now he’s ruined. A few more months of this, the cerebellum turns to mush, the eyes degrade, the voice is lost. He’ll be an interesting autopsy.” Her scarf slid back, revealing a long, sinuous scar, faint crosshatching from expertly arranged stitches.
“Any other interesting cases?”
