Call me focused, if you will, or anxious, or even self-contained; do not call me narcissistic. True, there is a barcode on my forehead, but it is only just barely visible. If I am not pure, I am as pure as most of the 8 ½ billion now being prepped for sacrifice. They are pure enough. They will serve, as will you, dear reader/listener, who have volunteered to bare your throat by the fact of your existence. My role? It is only to inform you of your role. The entrance to and the exit from the labyrinth are the same. There, the choice is yours. It is certainly not my fault if the Minotaur was a friend. It is not fair to describe me as a vector of disease, and if I were, would this really be so bad? How else could I speak of the Minotaur, of your no more than six-degrees of separation from his cult.
In its “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,” the A.P.A. lists narcissism as a disease, but why, when so many narcissists are successful, even famous? Some diseases are common, like life. A true disease originates on the other side of death. It is a broken mirror, a sign pointing at itself. To its host, the true disease is of inestimable value. “Success does not come cheap,” as the maxim goes, but the price will be paid by someone other than the Minotaur. The 12-year-old girl who works at the Dow plant in Bhopal, for example, has volunteered to assist in the clearing of this debt, and she is said to be grateful that she has a job at all. In this age of the triumph of the Top One Percent, of sociopathic chic, to say that someone is “successful” does not imply any personal virtue on his part, or that he has not, very simply, stolen what he wants.
For now the shadows have come out to play. The light shifts, and they have suddenly become much more tangible than they were, as they dare us to speak up. We are free to say “Please” and “Thank You.” We have somehow incurred a debt by the fact of our existence. “Will that be cash or blood, sir?” It is possible that the 1000 percent interest is too high. Once, Daedalus had set up a receptacle for virgins, which has now been fully automated. We are free to speak up, if we choose. We are free to interact with the forces that, from the time before the Deluge was a tear, have been hidden at the dead center of the labyrinth.
Continue reading at Scene4:
https://www.scene4.com/0823/briangeorge0823.html
https://untimelybooks.com/book/masks-of-origin/
Art: Rudolf Hausner, The Labyrinth, 1987-1991
