The Brain Wave Synchronizer bats an eye at me: spitting dull light out: three hundred yellow flecks per minute; less. I stare, relaxed to pure stagnation on the couch. One hundred eighty per. The machine ticks: an ice tray set in warm water. Shaped like some 1940s camera flash attachment. Slowing to one hundred twenty per. My vision is cajoled by it; and the mind’s eye behind that. Sixty per now. It sings a da-dit song of running down; of letting the cat die beneath your swing. That animal who is killer/prey, night-nervous in my head.
“Deeper, deeper. Deep.” Ted, the hypnotist, pushes me under: an oral drowning. His voice can entrance: suave, assured: a tone to persuade people off bridge rails with. I have been practicing relaxation for almost one month now: it’s the most strenuous
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