PITFALL ART

Train of Thought Derails at the Intersection of Logic and Psychosis

Experiments in Creativity #3: Part 2

The recruits, lined up in the hold, grabbed a handle as the induction ship lurched into orbit.

Once in orbit, the ship stabilised and an officer appeared, dressed psych-military style. She eyeballed us, giving particular attention to those in Nevada Blue.

“OK, everyone. Physicals first. Disrobe.”

For those in Nevada Blue, there was nothing underneath. Distracted by the naked bodies, when I finally looked up the officer’s eyes were locked on me.

“You!”

I was led down a corridor that had a series of shimmering portals running off it, each with a number above. Psychic invaders probed my mind, leaving greasy mental traces, garbled half-names, until something stuck. Optic Man. #23.

We reached the end of the corridor.

“Put your feet on the marks.”

A grid of 12x12 tiles was mounted on the wall. Starting at the top left and moving horizontally, each tile illuminated. A numerical display sat above. With each tile, the number changed. Green, up. Red, down. Orangey yellow, somewhere in between.

The sequence reached the final tile. 23 was showing on the display.

The officer opened a terminal next to the tiles, scanned my ID and was prompted “Psychic Orientation”, entering the number 23.

She then walked down the corridor to a series of lockers, opening one with a big 23 on it and pulled out two outfits.

“It’s more a mental than a physical, and I’m certified for 23. I’m Alonnah Gaynor. Here, put this on.”

Alonnah changed into her suit. They were covered in tiny prisms.

She led me back down the corridor to portal 23, shrugged, grabbed my arm and jumped in.

We floated and shimmering lights danced about us.

“Brace, we’re going to crash.”

We were flung to the ground and when I looked up we were at the site of a massive train crash.

The train driver was doing the crushed optic nerve dance.

The people, dressed in filthy Victorian garb, edged away from us as Alonnah pointed and said, “Optic Man thinks there.”

And there he was. Sitting atop a massive pedestal, a solid block of granite, as tall, long and wide as Billy Smillew, who stood beside me, his mouth agape. Billy rarely was in awe of anything or anyone. He’d seen it all in his ten years on Earth. The collapse of the internet on the Eades of March, 2023 in the city he was visiting while his parents moved house.

But to see Optic Man wrapped in a Nevada flag, his crazy poker chip blue eyes, sitting in The Thinker pose at the top of the pedestal was otherworldly.

A dust devil blew in from the north. Optic Man pulled the flag tightly around his skinny frame. Wal Martman trash bags took flight, dancing in a spiral around him.

Optic Man was visibly shaking. His mouth half full or half empty of teeth were chattering.

Billy pulled off his Salavation Arm E grey hoodie. He approached Optic Man and handed the hoodie up to him.

Optic Man reached for it with boney fingers and nodded his thanks.

“Optic Man, please tell us of your family. Why are they not here to help you in your time of need?” asked Billy.

“They couldn’t make the trip,” he answered.

To Billy’s hears, OM’s spoken words, soft and carried away by wind and dust, sounded like “They shouldn’t sink the ship.”

“But there is no ship to sink. There is no water to sink it in. All of us arrived here by train.”

“Awh, yes, the terrain is not amenable here for human life.” Optic Man pointed in the direction of Earth. “Nor was it there. Nor anywhere.” His arm swooped from left to right as far as he could reach, encompassing the galaxy.

“So you’ll never return to Earth?” asked Billy.

Optic Man rummaged through the kangaroo pocket on Billy’s hoodie. He pulled out a plastic spork and held it out to Billy.

“Ahah! What is this pray tell? The tool of a juvenile delinquent?

No matter which world I run into, someone is always holding the puppet strings and yelling action. And its people scamper, pulling each other down, desperate to finish the maze first. It never ceases to astonish me.

Death didn’t scare me, living did. But you stare at the void enough times, and your courage shakes like a leaf in a storm. It asks you tough questions.

Like why are you the way you are? Would it be easier to fake it?

Philosophers and influencers have been searching for meaning for ages. Every night we listen to some wise-sounding fool regurgitate a version of Keep Calm and Carry On and every morning we wake up looking for more.

And now I’m listening to yet another expert claiming to have answers.

Some days I want to quit thinking. Get that part of my brain surgically removed. For all the misery it has brought me, it fully deserves the fate.

A jolt to my spine spins me awake. My eyes squint from the blinding light.

“Would you please stop, just for a minute?”

“What do you care? You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

I know I signed up. I came here willingly, maybe to try again — maybe to feel. But I can’t stand the bloodsucker. No one has ever laughed at my darkness, challenging my force. And I don’t know how to react to that.

It’s like a ghost you sought out — always haunting your head.

Do you ever get the feeling that you’re missing something but can’t quite put your finger on it? You can’t find it or let go of it either. Until it becomes an obsession and you’ll give up anything — any part — to get a glimpse of it.

So when the tide you’ve feared all your life rolls in, you jump. Not to dodge it, but like an Olympic diver. You want to see how far under it can pull you.

You tried. You never belonged. You have nothing to lose.

Illusion.

This is Part 2 of our current Experiments in Creativity, a collaboration between Ann James, Debdutta Pal and Robert Gowty.

You can read Part 1 here: