webcams will tonight be streaming
live images from inside the mind
of one travis benson, who has managed
to insert one in each ear and tune them
to a frequency of light he has determined
will allow the visual display of his thoughts.
before today, travis was a virtual unknown
who labored in a basement in some undetermined city
to bring his vision to fruition. only a handful
of esoterically inclined and fully wired aficionados
of the fuzzier edges of experimentation
have been aware of his work, as well as
certain governments who have sought him for some time.
in gray buildings on the outskirts of capitals worldwide
hired geeks stand ready to track him down when he comes on line,
as their masters imagine a future bonanza for intelligence work
if the technique works as rumored. the possibilities,
it is thought, will be endless: the passive voice of a spy’s mind
revealing all the intricacies of espionage, the names and places
of deadly deceits and plotted assassinations…at the same time,
artists have waited eagerly for this moment, hoping that tonight they’ll see
the threads of creativity exposed in the bright storm anticipated
in travis’ skull. what will be discovered in the crannies
of the genius who created this moment, a moment only ever before captured
in the illusory fragments of thought that until now have been deemed
masterpieces — the sistine chapel, the hulks of giant buddhas carved
into mountains, strains of gamelan and symphony, the words of writers
imperfectly reflecting what they were thinking?
at 2315 GMT, travis benson’s mind goes online
and screens go dark all over the world.
at first, the images are confusing: a forest of eyes.
a field of small birds feeding on germs. a city
where the streets are paved with chlldren’s bones.
an immense fall of leaden water salted with the hearts of mice.
as the viewers — millions of them, billions perhaps,
all focused on one travis benson — begin to sort through
what they are seeing, the images on the screen begin to shift
into a story of disjoint and ripple, unremediated rejections
and leftover resentments. in india, there are those who swear
they see kali charming them; american racists see nothing but black teeth
gnawing the arms of white women; a businessman in caracas
imagines himself in the grip of apes with scimitars. the pope,
secretly hoping for some proof of the divine, is startled
when jesus appears waving a wedding ring. a child in new york city
runs screaming to her mother demanding that new doll, the one
that dreams and beats and frets.
around the world, the people slowly reach in zombie time
for the switches. they go outside and stare up at the stars,
holding each other, talking of love, of family, anything
to erase what they’ve seen.
the artists turn back
to their canvases and keyboards,
painting and playing
hymns and wedding marches,
landscapes and erotic joy.
what the governments think
is classified.
and as for travis benson: what else can be said?
no one wants to know him anymore,
this ugly man who has done an ugly thing.
he disconnects
the cameras. he goes outside.
in the ensuing days
he will heal himself,
staring anonymously at the things
he’s wrought.
memory,
travis thinks, is a creature
of habit. it feeds in the same places
unless something changes…
and something has changed.
a frequency of light.
of lightness.
Dark Matter 