I step into The Portal and a wave
of numbers, alphabets, hieroglyphics
and images rush toward me,
saturating me and making me anxious.
It takes a little getting used to.
I still remember the first time when
I thought the maelstrom would
consume me, devour flesh, bone,
and marrow. I exit and I’m possessed by
a heightened lucidity, an eerie clarity
which brings to mind the words, ‘glass’
and ‘water’. I don’t know how else to
describe it. I know that I’m a black woman
for the next month, giving impassioned
speeches about blaxploitation and
heralding legends like Rudy Ray Moore.
Yeah, Dolemite is my name, and fuckin’
up motherfuckers is my game! I feel it
in my damn soul,
and it doesn’t matter if I was
a Hindu, brown man last month.
Race, creed, gender and class
are antiquated concepts. I have a mission
and a purpose in the 21st Century Film
Studies Department. The
Portal has mapped out where I
need to be and what I have to do.
But I’m not a robot. I’m as sentient as
they come. I made a choice to step into
it, to be a paragon of virtue who
decided to eliminate differences, opinions,
madness and war, along with the rest of
humanity. True, it was that or
death, but who wants to die for
a dream? And what is a dream but an
illusion of independence? We all want
someone to unburden us of conflict,
and that I express
myriad streams of thought running
through my mind, combining at some
point to form an awe-inspiring whole
shows you I’m as sentient as they come.
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