I was in a tube last week. And no, I was not going to be mailed, or born, or mummified or sent down Ol Man River though it felt like all three. I was scanned by very fast very loud magnets spinning around my braincase and my genre foreverafter is Star Trek because I carried home films of my brain and eyeballs, and optic nerves, and they look just like stalks, good God, Captain! like the eyestalks of a lobster!
Afterwards I should have been offered a cigarette, or a mint or something like maybe at the very least a piece of pie and a moist towelette because I was reamed, bored, sliced, cored. I now have images of my brain in side view, in slices, like a loaf of bread, all blessedly normal.
It's not my brain that's toute fucke as they say in French-speaking Canada although it is fucked up to look at your brain, it's very meta, very Hamlet-esque, there's you looking at your brain, who do that voodoo? You do, darlin' I am so ready for Halloween. In life we are in death. If you know me, you know I'm making my brain MRI films into fabulous window clings.