$\"Lady$ <\/a>

Lady in Satin<\/em>\u00a0by Tierney Malone. Mixed medium on board, 60″X72″, 2013.<\/p><\/div>\n

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$\"Playlist\"$ <\/a><\/h3>\n
Tierney’s playlist<\/a><\/h3>\n
Listen to\u00a0Too Much<\/em>\u00a0by Kendrick Scott Oracle on YouTube.<\/strong>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/p>\n
You can also<\/em> read more about Tierney’s art<\/a>\u00a0and Kendrick Scott Oracle<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n
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\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Spring in Santa Barbara is just like summer, winter and fall. In bed, I peer out the window and wait for sleep to come, but it doesn\u2019t at this hour; sunrise is too imminent and my body, if anything, is only good at complying with celestial movements, and little else. I wonder if Linda is awake. She lives on her own, in a granny flat facing my kitchen, and on most mornings I\u2019m lucky if she emerges by noon. In this sense she is a bad companion, if you can call her that.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Studies show: disabled people have just as high self-esteem as everyone else.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My problem is this: why?<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My first thought\u2014hypothesis, if you will\u2014is that paralysis makes it awfully hard to kill yourself. I\u2019m paralyzed from the chest down, but still have limited use of my hands and fingers, which means I get a joystick and not some voice-activated device to achieve life\u2019s most important moments, like when to take a shit. Or rather, remove the catheter to the bag that stores said shit, and dispose. Theoretically, I could fasten a jumper cable around my neck, but the real problem is where to secure the other end. For that I would require another human, and therein lies the problem; I am stuck living, after all. The able-bodied\u2014they must face the perpetual existential question of devising their own exit strategy.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My second thought is that paralysis makes real sex difficult and exotic sex imperative. Real sex is messy and wet and usually ends with unintended consequences. Exotic sex is clean and barren; wetness is optional.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMr. Hamilton,\u201d Luck calls to me, emerging in the door frame. \u201cSir.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re early,\u201d I tell him.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re awake,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHow\u2019s the weather out there?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSame as the other 364 days of the year,\u201d he says, looking out my window. \u201cYou\u2019re not missing out on much.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhere\u2019s Linda?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m not her caregiver, Jim.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cShe doesn\u2019t need a caregiver.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cShe is probably sleeping still.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Luck doesn\u2019t understand true love because he is 31 and has little to lose. He is dating a 12-year old Asian chick (not really, I hope, but with Asians you can never tell, or be too careful) who alternates between Mandarin and Spanglish when they fuck, like she is speaking in tongues. As of this moment, she is probably sprawled naked on his twin mattress in the garage, butt akimbo, where he (and now she) spends most nights. Sleeping, like Linda.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Studies show: snakes have terrible vision. Instead, they rely on infra-red radiation. Honeybees use magnetic fields of the earth to see. Linda uses Google Maps and still gets lost, so perhaps when God decided to hand out the senses he did not hand them out equally. The scientific term for this is getting shafted. For this reason we need help.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m out,\u201d I say to Luck.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wheel out of my complex and go to Linda\u2019s door. She has no doorbell and no knocker either\u2014the granny flat is technically on my property, after all\u2014so I just tap the keyhole. She opens after a good long while.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI thought I heard you,\u201d I say. \u201cWere you saying something?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Stringy blond strands decorate her skull like fine cotton candy, freshly spun, then matted.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI think I heard something too,\u201d she tells me.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat\u2019d it sound like to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe radio through someone else\u2019s car window,\u201d she says. \u201cAnything going on out there?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s quiet,\u201d I say. \u201cCome out and see for yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI think I\u2019ll take a nap,\u201d she answers. If you want to figure out what is wrong with Linda, here is your first clue: it\u2019s 10 in the morning.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Linda doesn\u2019t understand some things. Among them include the look in her eyes when I ended her life. If she saw her own face when the accident happened, she would understand why I puncture her days with my watchful gaze and nonrandom visits. Making amends\u2014isn\u2019t that the first step to recovery?<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Studies show: memory is OJ from a can. Reconstituted from concentrate, to be exact. If memory feels like an attic, it must be a fantastical one where sleds morph into cows and shit comes flying out when you least expect it and some things just can never be found. The day I killed Linda was a Friday, but could\u2019ve been a Thursday or Monday. I didn\u2019t go to work based on the circumstantial evidence (if I did, it would\u2019ve made a fool-proof alibi, no?). Previous data suggests that I must have been drinking the night before, and probably the morning of, because any drunk will tell you that retox is the best alternative to detox, which never works anyway. I parked my van and leaned into the passenger seat to sleep off that annoying gap between consciousness and more consciousness. I woke to a ringing sensation reverberating in my toes. By then it was too late anyway.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They say a story expands each time you tell it ^{[1]<\/sup><\/a>, like a pregnant universe still ballooning from the original Bang, <\/em>but mine contracts like a late-term abortion gone awry, sporadically, with great force and misplaced devastation.<\/p>\n}
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The police report says the van was in neutral, no parking brake either. Maybe I left it that way; maybe the liquor impaired my sleep-induced paralysis and I changed the gears while dreaming. Either way, my vehicle slid forward and proceeded to ski down Cliff Drive towards the Pacific Ocean, gathering speed past Elings Park and the Mesa, miraculously remaining in the right lane the entire time. At least that\u2019s what the traffic cameras show.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 What happens next is hearsay, given that neither of the two people involved profess any recollection of the event. A woman, 45, is standing at the corner of Cliff and Veronica Springs. She is about to cross. The walk man flicks from red to a muted yellow. She takes a big step down towards the pavement. And then we meet.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I awake I am full of static, a proverbial shitstorm so to speak. My fingers are asleep, my legs transformed into silicone. I can\u2019t grip the door I am hugging. I need to pee, but the release doesn\u2019t come. I can\u2019t tell if I\u2019ve shat on myself.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The woman, she is about to be lifted on a gurney by two paramedics. She is shaking her head violently. She does not want to be there, does not want to go where she is headed to next. Perhaps God likes to give you a heads up before he sends you to the cross, like with Jesus at Gethsemane. Did it help then?<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSweetheart,\u201d I hear myself call out through the glass I am still trapped behind. \u201cPlease. Get on the fucking bed.\u201d She looks at me with a recognition that will follow me all the remaining days of my life. We don\u2019t know each other yet, but we will, soon enough. She complies anyway, although she was right. She should\u2019ve never gotten on the gurney.<\/p>\n
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^{[1]<\/sup><\/a> By \u201cthey\u201d I really mean my fictional friends from Chang-Rae Lee\u2019s On Such a Full Sea<\/em>.<\/p>\n}
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My ex-wife arrives with her books. She is a mind-fucking aficionado, so much so that she gets called to teach Introduction to Psychology <\/em>to impressionable young minds semi-annually. <\/em>When the doctors aren\u2019t there, she tells me the latest scientific findings that promise to change my life, or at least my outlook. Studies on fluid compensation, self-affirmation, localization of brain functions, neuron resiliency, catastrophic breakdown. She tells me the story of the colorblind cyborg whose brain now sees in sound. She shows me his TED talk. This was supposed to be uplifting, but instead, I can\u2019t get over how awkward this man\u2019s head looks with his color detecting antennae, how awful his clothes look, and how often he must get laid (not often, until the TED talk at least). The talk\u2019s ending is helpful though: \u201cBecome a cyborg,\u201d he tells me. \u201cYou will not be alone.\u201d I think of the woman.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I ask the doctors about her, they say words like \u201cslow\u201d and \u201cirrevocable\u201d and \u201crecovery\u201d and \u201cwe\u2019ll see.\u201d This is code for we don<\/em>\u2019<\/em>t know,<\/em> which they are not allowed to say. My ex tells me the human brain is the single most complex thing in the known universe, and the one we know the least about.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat about black holes?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFigured them out in the nineties,\u201d she tells me. \u201cGet with the program. But the brain? That\u2019s something else.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I can tell she is right because she says this right in front of the doctor, and he doesn\u2019t say anything, just looks for his pen, which is in his pocket, where it always is.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No one shows up to claim the woman, and the lady didn\u2019t even carry a wallet.\u00a0 The nurses casually mention the word homeless <\/em>before I start referring to her as my Linda. <\/em>Technically that is not a lie. You break it; you take it. Isn\u2019t that what we were always told?<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The doctors and nurses start referring to her as Linda too. To convince them that she is mine, I scream at her when she wakes up and she can\u2019t say where she lives, or her next of kin, or what she did on her fifth birthday. I soothe her, tell her stories about how we supposedly met and our barren past without children. I say it over the shrill staccato of her vital monitors so everyone can hear. I tell her she used to be a lawyer. \u201cWhat kind?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe kind that saves people,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 With me, it\u2019s what you\u2019d expect\u2014an unsuccessful stint in physical therapy where I get to confirm what I already knew. Yep, I<\/em>\u2019<\/em>m paralyzed! Free parking for life. <\/em>My therapist calls me a rockstar because of my indefatigable attitude. I take her home with me and she gets wet over not needing a morning after pill. Perhaps there are perks other than parking that I may have undersold.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I\u2019m not in physical therapy I google amnesia. Retrograde, anterograde, episodic. <\/em>I watch YouTube videos about Clive, the man with a seven-second memory whose only recollection is of his wife, Deborah. She is the sole person he recognizes. He makes out with her madly whenever she visits. I briefly start to feel better before I find out from Wikipedia that after 20 years of being married to a man who can\u2019t remember the beginning of a sentence he has just said, Deborah leaves him. The good news? He doesn’t remember.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Then there\u2019s Art, the 79-year-old who can\u2019t remember a single event from his life after a stroke interrupts his basketball game. And Wendy, the USC student who fell off her bunk bed and forgot everything, then fell off her bunk bed again and got it all back. There\u2019s Guy Pierce in Memento<\/em> and Jim Carey in Eternal Sunshine. <\/em>The endings are all the same though: without memory, you are no longer you. You are free to be nothing and anything at all. I consider Linda, my Linda. Who will she be?<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When the discharge arrives, even I am a little surprised that the nurses let me take Linda home. Perhaps it is because Santa Barbara lacks a Skid Row, and the bleeding heart liberals all have their homes already occupied by Syrian refugees. There is no place for middle-aged White women with no last name and even the homeless shelters require ID these days. Or maybe they believe me, that Linda is mine. Truth, after all, is more devastating than fiction, try as we might.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Linda moves herself right into the granny flat without me asking. \u201cThis is nice,\u201d she says, ignoring the larger house with its midcentury touches and water-wise hardscaping.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou used to stay here on long weekends when you\u2019d visit me,\u201d I tell her.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWe used to smoke on the bed and read magazines all weekend,\u201d I say. Perhaps this is not the best idea.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat were we like?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I draw a blank. \u201cWe were stuck with each other,\u201d I reply, smiling.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She rolls her head to one side, as if touched by a soft thought. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d she says at last.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 We crash land into a routine that is thin and deep. We become Jim and Linda. Our names sound so melodic next to each other that it drowns out everything else\u2014goals, recovery, people. Of course there are the usual tantrums. I will flirt until the day I die. Linda screams at me when she catches one of my female caregivers giving me a sponge bath in my jet tub. She demands to know whether I\u2019ve ever had a vasectomy and where the other baby mamas be at. I tell her it doesn\u2019t work anymore anyway. This calms her down a bit.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou mean you can\u2019t get a boner if you tried?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNot if mankind depended on it,\u201d I tell her. This makes her smile, which I find only vaguely concerning at the time.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The next night we are back to reading magazines in bed. US Weekly <\/em>is her favorite (mine too).<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGet me the present,\u201d she tells me.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat present?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI want to get out,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wait. Perhaps it is her meds talking.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo that for me,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGet me out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat are you saying? Where?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo it,\u201d she says. \u201cYou owe me a present.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Studies show: There is no present! Neuroscience tells us that every moment is either gone or not yet come. The brain\u2014yours, at least\u2014glues the last few seconds of the immediate past together and gives it to you as the present, which indeed it is, a present. A present known as now. If Linda wants to get out, I have to give her a present first.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When morning comes, I decide to go back to work. Luck looks at me suspiciously when I break the news.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJust set it up,\u201d I tell him.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Luck turns on my MacBook. I check my webmail first. 3,427 messages.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGood luck with that,\u201d I say out loud, to no one in particular. Email is like a neuron firing or a tree falling in the forest. If there is no one to catch it, it was never there.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There are two levels of encryption I have to get through, company policy. I work for the secretive avant-garde arm of the DoD (Department of Defense) whose name I dare not say, for the same reasons the Jews used to never refer to God as God but rather, Yahweh or YHWH or G_d.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 OK, so the DoD is not G_d (the similarities in number of letters and shared consonants are striking though, no?), but the DoD doesn\u2019t know that.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I\u2019m not on paid leave or disability, I model neurons. To understand what that means, you\u2019ll have to know two things.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 One: the neocortex of a rat lives on a silicone mat at the Georgia Institute of Technology. When it fires, the electricity it generates moves a robot arm with a pencil at the end. We call it \u201cArtbot.\u201d You can buy its art in Soho.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Two: there are 300 million stars in the Milky Way and our budget deficit is somewhere in the ballpark of 4.2 trillion dollars. If you think that\u2019s a lot, consider this: there are 500 trillion connections between the neurons in your brain, 500 trillion on and off switches made of meat and light.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The secret is what turns protein into experience. That\u2019s what I was hired for.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Last week I got a memo that K.S.\u2019 implant was a success. A lifelong epileptic, K.S. used to show up to my classes jittery and mean. In the habit of turning in work three weeks late and answering questions two slides after they were posed, K.S. was not the most spectacular student. Still, like that woman comic who got cancer and then got her own Netflix special over it, K.S. turned her characteristic darting speech into a notable stand-up routine on nights she wasn\u2019t doing homework (every night). She affectionately referred to her daytime seizures as episodes.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cCatching up on lost episodes?\u201d I\u2019d ask, when she would disappear for a week. \u201cA whole season of them,\u201d she\u2019d reply. When the seizures stole over the nights and installed a permanent tremor in her voice, she decided that was it.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She only got the implant because her application for physician-assisted suicide was denied.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re not terminal,\u201d her doctor said, disappointed as well\u2014she would\u2019ve been his first case.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI will abso-fucking-lutely do it myself,\u201d she replied.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He asked if she has heard of marijuana. This made her laugh so hard she forgot to kill herself, which was good, because we were in need of volunteers.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When K.S. mentioned missing a midterm for a neurologist\u2019s appointment, I casually asked what it was for.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cLobe resection,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou want to go grab a sandwich?\u201d was my reply. \u201cWe could talk about the future,\u201d I said. She looked skeptical but took me up on it. And now she is Subject 1a.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I open up the flash drive her files are waiting for me. In theory, implants can do anything. Grow you new limbs, cure schizophrenia and everyday depression, make you into a great lover or poet or Darth Vader. The problem is, implanting a computer chip in someone\u2019s brain also opens you up to high-level hacking and mind control and most likely the apocalypse. The DoD is sensitive about this stuff, worries that the Annie Jacobsens of the world saw too many zombie movies. Nevermind that the zombie problem was what got us into this territory\u2014when Francis Crick, the guy who discovered DNA, declared that the only thing that differentiated humans from zombies\u2014consciousness, namely\u2014was a lost cause that was subjectively impossible to define and objectively impossible to measure, every artificial intelligence junkie took up their arms and joined the brain prosthesis movement. If we\u2019ve crossed the membrane from sacred minds to electrified three-pound pieces of meat between our ears, there is nothing stopping us from ourselves.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I follow the black and neon fMRI images, marvel at the hand-soldered chip sitting in K.S.\u2019 prefrontal cortex. The most sophisticated computer in the world, stuck between folds of unworthy beef. \u201cLinda,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cShe’s not here,\u201d Luck reminds me.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cUnderstood,\u201d I say back. \u201cGet my boss on the phone. I think we have ourselves another volunteer.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
* \u00a0* \u00a0<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n*
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat a surprise,\u201d Wilder says, when he picks up. \u201cIt’s been a while.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m a paraplegic,\u201d I tell him, by way of explanation.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cStill a drunk though?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSeparation of work and life,\u201d I remind him.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He makes no comeback. \u201cI found ourselves a Subject 1b,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAlready?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWell?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI call her Linda. Her exact identity has yet to be\u2014\u201d I trail off. \u201cVerified.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat the fuck does that mean,\u201d Wilder says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cShe\u2019s a human,\u201d I tell him. \u201cWith a brain. A jacked one at that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat more can the DoD hope for?\u201d Wilder asks.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cExactly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat does she have?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cTotal retrograde amnesia following a traumatic brain injury.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAnterograde too?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s hard to say,\u201d I answer. \u201cShe\u2019s fuzzy.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cCan she remember the beginning of a sentence long enough to provide consent?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt sounds like we have our prime candidate.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
* \u00a0* \u00a0<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n*
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Linda is standing by her window\u2014my window\u2014eyes suspended on no one thing in particular. She is wearing pink velour lounge pants and a matching sweatshirt that reminds me of college.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI can predict the future,\u201d she says, smiling.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHow so?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI knew you\u2019d come for me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWant to be a cyborg?\u201d I can\u2019t tell if it’s a plea or an offering.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She regards me silently. Perhaps this was not the present she was expecting.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d I tell her. \u201cYou will not be alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
* \u00a0* \u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n*
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Wilder lets me program whatever I want on Linda\u2019s implant; give her any hard drive I\u2019d like. The problem with memory is that it\u2019s not just any old app; it\u2019s the ultimate killer app that makes other apps possible\u2014knowing what to feel, how to reason, whether you\u2019re going to order gazpacho or chicken tortilla\u2014everything runs on memory. The only question is, whose database of memories do I give Linda?<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My first strategy is to create them myself. To this end I watch 628 YouTube videos, grainy home footage of babies and cats and attempted macaroons and makeup tutorials and skateboarding accidents. It doesn\u2019t take long to decide that collective consciousness, at least in its current state, makes for a very uninteresting person. Unless I want to be amused to death, I must come up with something better.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Great autobiographies come next; I could give Linda a God complex. There are only two on my shelf. One of them is Decision Points, <\/em>whose most memorable episode was when a 30-something George W. Bush asks an attractive 50-year-old woman during the middle of her birthday dinner, \u201cHow\u2019s the sex at 50?\u201d To which she retorts, two decades later on his<\/em> 50th, \u201cSo, George, how is it?\u201d Seems like her long game was longer than his; perhaps she should\u2019ve been president. I would have to do better for Linda.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The best I could come up with?<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 To give her mine.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (I didn\u2019t think this through, of course).<\/p>\n
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* \u00a0* \u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n*
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Two months of continuous downloading before my memory backup is complete. Now I can afford my own memory loss without worry about lapses. To be safe I upload an extra copy onto the Cloud, just in case something happens.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
* \u00a0* \u00a0<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n*
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When I knock on Linda\u2019s hospital room door she is awake, bald and blinking, her skull tattooed with the threads from the incision. \u201cMy Linda,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cLiar,\u201d she replies.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cCorrect,\u201d I say. \u201cNo one knows your real name.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She smiles. \u201cYou could\u2019ve just told me everything, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I say nothing.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI might\u2019ve forgiven you anyway,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cLiar,\u201d I reply.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re not me,\u201d she reminds me. \u201cI\u2019m just you, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSo now you understand\u2014\u201d I ask, hoping.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201c\u2014Nothing,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
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* \u00a0* \u00a0<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She won\u2019t visit, that much I know. There is nothing left of me that she wants; she already has everything she needs. She has so little to take from her flat\u2014a few magazines, her velours, a succulent. She knocks on my door for the first time on her way out.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo one thing for me before you leave?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYes,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I hand her one end of a jumper cable. \u201cSecure this somewhere, will you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She contemplates the door\u2014it might jam; the light fixture\u2014too flimsy; finally, she double knots it around the rod in the closet. When she hands back to me the loose end she begins to understand.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019ve decided,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDepends,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She leaves without asking, on what?<\/p>\n
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About the Illustrator<\/div>\n
\n Tierney Malone<\/a>\n <\/div>\n
\n
Tierney was born in Los Angeles, but has long called Houston his home. He is a modern-day storyteller who creates works on paper and mixed media constructions. He uses the canon of African-American history and pop culture to help him create contemporary tales about life. By invoking colorful and emotionally charged figures from jazz, sports and literature, Tierney makes powerful and sensitive works that are both visually beautiful and politically provocative.<\/p>\n
Tierney has exhibited his art widely throughout Texas and the U.S., including numerous solo exhibitions. His works are in the permanent collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; the Kansas City Jazz Museum, Kansas City, Missouri; Goldman Sachs, New York, New York; and the Federal Reserve Bank, Houston, Texas. He is the recipient of the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation Grant, a CACHH Visual Artist Grant, and a Kimbrough Visual Artist Grant.<\/p>\n
Tierney has collaborated with noted jazz musicians; commissioned to create the jacket cover for jazz musician Don Byron\u2019s 1999 CD, \u201cRomance of the Unseen\u201d on the Blue Note label and jazz pianist Randy Weston for a 2003 performance at the Miller Outdoor Theater. In 2008 he completed two major commissions; a limited edition print celebrating Da Camera of Houston\u2019s 20th Anniversary and an outdoor mural entitled \u201cSouthern Sounds\u201d for the Coleman Art Center in York, Alabama. Music and the creators of music are major influences in his work. It was in November 2009 that Tierney presented a solo exhibition in Houston, Texas, \u201cThird Ward My Harlem.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/div>\n
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More from Illustrator<\/div><\/a>\n <\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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