The Medicine Cabinet

In the enclosure there is a medicine cabinet.

In the medicine cabinet there are: two bottles, one orange, one green; a piece of wet cloth; and a three day old mirror.

How do we know it is a three day old mirror?

Because it does not function as a one or two day mirror. But perhaps I should say, instead, 'a mirror that is at least three days old,' as I do not know that it is actually three days old. All mirrors function largely the same at and after the three-day point; the difference is so slight and negligable it is not worth mentioning, but I should at least leave this fact in the notes to avoid the chance of misleading any reader into believing that I know the exact age of the mirror in the cabinet.

The contents of both bottles have gone undisturbed since observation began, though they are occasionally handled. The cloth remains wet, and though we have often seen it removed, we can discern neither its use nor what keeps it wet. She begins fiddling with it at night, you see--the cabinet door has a very particular snap sound that cannot be confused with any other sound in the enclosure-- and so by the time she removes something and, we assume, uses it, we often do not get a glimpse of it. We do not know the strength or nature of the prescriptions, or the other objects; we do not know if those she indulges in are the strongest, or the weakest of the assortment. We keep full watch on the enclosure (it is very tiring), and yet there are still these things that are continually missed. The night observers are several and often changed (I myself have taken the shift), so it is not possible that one researcher has been slacking in their duties. Our books are numerous, but sadly lacking.

Sometimes I wonder if any of the other scientists notice this. Sometimes I wonder if this strange blank, this blind spot in our research has not somehow been crafted by some force determined to keep us from the end goal of our observations. I feel there is some intention out there, whether hers or one of my colleagues or only that of the sun itself, to keep-from-knowing.

It grows dark again. My shift is over.

Unnamed

The constant bending of the fence, as if she could not choose a direction, as if she fears the irreparable and definite damage that will come with choosing a direction, though a similar (is it more? is it less? This question is maddening, and yet, pointless) damage is caused by indecision as well--

Is it possible to wake up in such vastly altered places without realizing how one got there? We do not always remember how we fall asleep, but surely, after that moment of strangeness, we remember it is Friday, we remember, generally, what we did in the week, or what we must have done in the week, because it is what is generally done every week.

Is it possible to forget a whole week? Not the week itself, but a thready progression that runs through it like a smear--

I do not think this thought has any relevance to our subject, though I may have started with that intention. I must remember to tear this page from the study, too.

She moves, sometimes, in the enclosure, as if she intends to forget certain motions, certain actions; and we know she must, because the next day, she does them again, though each time, a little altered in order to forget. There is nothing in the actions themselves that suggest a reason for this peculiarity; it must be some motivation behind it, some thought that must constantly be acted through differently lest its origin be known; there is something disastrous in it, but it cannot be abandoned, and so these motions are cautious encounters with it, the alterations to keep it from knowing itself.

Sometimes she thinks of it as work.

Sometimes as penance.

Sometimes as sanity.

It changes from time to time, but always, it has function, whether one of the three or another to suit. That is why it persists--it is allowed to. It is given reason to, reverse ex nihilo. In return for its services, it is not named.

Awry

"Why do you do it then?"

She touches the twisted shape of the fence (I made this, perhaps she thinks with pride or disgust or calm disinterest) and this is the phrase that comes to her; we know this because it is occasionally found scrawled between the other symbols on the inside of the cell. The symbols that trace the outside perimeter of the cell have, after a few rain and dry spells, hardened in the clay; those written on the inside she often erases, a few hours later or a day, either intentionally with the sweep of an arm or unintentionally when she moves about the enclosure.

To this date, the aforementioned question has been written a total of 16--no, there were two more this afternoon--18 times. In only one of these instances was the question answered: "don't know," written with a quick, jabbing stroke. The question was erased two hours later; the answer hung around for six more hours before it, too, was smudged out (by a shuffle-walk that we suspect was intentional).

The writing of the phrase appears most often in conjunction with the feeling of the walls, either immediately before or immediately after. Sometimes, while feeling the metal, she will, with a sudden movement, bend them violently so that they cave in or bow out. The act serves no practical purpose, as the affected area is so small that it does not enlarge (or shrink) the enclosure in any significant way. Further, the same area is never bent twice, so it is clear she does not mean to weaken the structure (though the bending inarguably does weaken the walls, even we can see this, and if she continues long enough, we must assume she will start bending the same areas twice over, and thus begin truly damaging the structure in unintentional earnest).

We must conclude, then, that the bending is truly an impulsive gesture, perhaps a frustrated response to the unanswerable question that precedes or follows it. We cannot discern if the answer is known and ungivable, or ungivable because it is not known. For all the things we have set to paper in our hours of observation, this has been the most elusive. Not for lack of trying--there must be at least forty-two, no, forty-four pages on this already, and the script gets quite cramped on some of them. But in all these pages, we cannot quite say what is said. That is to say, our descriptions seem embarrassingly vain and hypothetical; there is nothing but cringing when one reads back on them. But strange thing--it is in these moments of realized futility when I think of the way the lone answer--"don't know"-- made its fleeting appearance in the dirt. And I feel very good, and very bad, and also, a desire to cast my pen down and write sharp, inconstant words in the earth that will not mean anything in the morning, that will beg, embarrassed, to be erased in the morning.

In these moments, I find the pen sometimes falling from my hand. But then some sound catches me, or some smell, or a movement at the side of my eye (the camp is often plagued by little desert lizards who seem to exist for the sole purpose of disrupting my reverie), and I continue writing where I had left off.

I must remember to tear these pages from the journal before turning them over to my colleagues, as they have nothing to do with the subject of study.