She trembles with the snowmelt, as if meaning to keep cold. I hold my bladder, watching. A chime is answered, voluntary pathogen pressed in the inner ear. We flag an app taxi. Her taps pillow ash on Astroturf. We’ve tried being clean. It’s entertaining. Rubber-banded grocery bag snapped overhead, plump lips lit by sparkling Retina Display, she intones: “I’m sick of everyone claiming they’re a survivor. You didn’t survive shit.” Her thumb drills the screen. “Just being a victim’s never enough.” I encourage some thoughts being saved from the feed.
Let’s be open here, it’s sometimes hard being a student. Hey, it’s sometimes hard being a human!
Whether you are homesick, having financial worries or suffering from more complex issues, we at Enlighten are deeply concerned about your wellbeing. The most important thing is to not keep it bottled up inside and to seek help before things get out of control.
That’s why we have partnered up with the geniuses over at PsySuite.
PsySuite is an advanced learning machine, which analyses the mental health of those who sit inside its private pod and interact. By assessing speech patterns and monitoring bodily response this sophisticated device can make a precise diagnosis of any common mental illness and then respond with sensory calming, intelligent suggestions and/or automatic prescriptions.
From the 09/10 you will be able to book appointments at the five PsySuite pods in Common Room 5, Floor 4.
So if you need a little help, reach out, register today.
Executive Hug-Giver @ Enlighten Students
She sucks on a standard ice cream ration. We earn resources from the sky in exchange for our great labor in punching faces and torturing people with the Relative Time Knife. It’s the free market. It’s the law of supply and demand. It has turned us black and turned us white, given us medicine and food, given us ampoules of angel gas and badguy vapor. That’s why we have these Chain3 teeth. Chain2 teeth are only strong enough to crunch through the ration crackers. That’s right, you have to punch ten guys just to eat the food that falls from the sky. That’s how they get you. Teleologically, anyways.
At first, me and Jetty didn’t punch anyone. It isn’t easy going up to strangers and using your knuckles to collide with their bone geometry and seeing what they’ll do in response, all the faces people make, and it’s worse if they don’t get mad, just really pathetic and sobbing and freaking out. But we got so hungry we were actually like, wow, starvation real. This actually happens to people. So we lay down in a ditch and punched each other ten times.
During a strange period of my life, I worked an acting gig on a military base. We were called “Standardized Patients.” Our job was to portray hypothetical subjects in training exercises for nurses, doctors, emergency personnel. Some days I’d play a soldier suffering from PTSD or a schizophrenic planning to murder his boss. Other days I was just a guy coming in for a routine physical. Occasionally we’d get assigned disaster scenarios for first responders. A plane crash, a suicide bombing, a mass shooting. We’d be decked out in special effects make-up, painted with fake blood, prosthetic broken bones, silicone skin. All the actors had different briefs. You be in shock, you be difficult, you be dead. We’d all be screaming bloody murder with pre-recorded sounds of carnage blaring from hidden speakers. We had to make it as convincing as possible. “These exercises save lives,” we were frequently told. Macabre stuff. Almost immediately after I started working there, the idea for Crisis Actor began gelling. Much of what I describe in the book is based on these actual experiences.
All I remember from childhood are the colors. Colors so vivid they appeared to be artificially induced, colors unimpeded by any intermediaries, pure color without form, pure sensation divorced from memory. A world saturated by colors, colors carried on the winds of autumn and spring, colors bleeding out of the trees and into the greenish summer air, colors blending all together on winter nights and shining forth in a single white radiance. No words, no shapes, no faces, only a blur of blind experience: grass smells, pencil smells, soap smells, sunset smells when the red orb of the sky sank into the horizon and set free the redolence buried deep within the dirt of our shrinking suburban woodlands. Life happened all at once, everything simultaneously beginning and ending, time both passing away forever and leaving an indelible residue upon the immaterial stuff of life. I wonder now, as I did not then, what this stuff of life might be. Back then it still seemed like a porous and living thing, a body pushing itself through the winds of time, one that bore, however faintly, the scent breathed upon it by the changing of the seasons from one to the next and the next.