Copyright ©1998, Christine
A doctor works over me, his uplifted pink-gloved hands maintain a fanciful sterility. The heavy scale which hangs from his shoulders make his back appear like a ribbed snakeskin. On one side a scientific beaker bubbles asking nothing of me but to submit with an opened mouth. The other side, a version of myself, huddles at the feet of Christ the shaman healer. Here, I'm asked to meditate on a flower to see my world as beautiful and end the need for illness. A nurse in a maid's outfit holds up my X-rays like a placard, announcing the next act of a Vaudville show. On stage I've made my illness a performance. In sleep I ask my teacher to awaken me.