She stops and nods at some of the patients come to stand around and stare out of eyes all red and puffy with sleep. She nods once to each. Precise, automatic gesture. Her face is smooth, calculated, and precision-made, like an expensive baby doll, skin like flesh-coloured enamel, blend of white and cream and baby-blue eyes, small nose, pink little nostrils – everything working together except the colour on her lips and fingernails, and the size of her bosom. A mistake was made somehow in manufacturing, putting those big, womanly breasts on what would of otherwise been a perfect work, and you can see how bitter she is about it.
Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, P11 copyright © Ken Kesey
We are all constructs of our environment and upbringing. Murphy got caught up in a mental institution whilst some of us just get trapped in the other world.
I have watched madness close up. It looks like normality. The people who purvey it appear to be super-normal. These folks are the projections of a society that truly believes in what it is told. Everything is real, everything is as we see it, everything should be taken on face-value. And the androgynous being, striding the corridors of our chosen institution, is there to provide guidance and direction.
The basic fact is that once we are in, once we have bought the ticket, it’s hard to get out.
Meditation. That’s the answer. So I checked the digital world for help. I was met by beaches and gentle waves, trees and gentle leaves, streams and gentle flows. In the midst of all of this was the course, and the accompanying books, to help in the quest towards owning an empty mind. Nah, it’s just putting face cream over the wrinkles.
I have disconnected with the madness of all that I see around me. Going into schools and teaching as a supply/substitute teacher has opened my eyes to something that I long suspected, the world is going mad. Inparticularly, many of our younger citizens are now so anti-social that it is difficult to communicate with them. I have been in one school for just over a month and have watched its deterioration as groups of students roam unhindered along the corridors during times set aside for lessons.
I was told that it was, until recently, a good school. Then came a change of management. Then came the dilemma, how do we improve such a good school. The answer for many in that position is to bring about change, leave a mark, set down a better path to follow. In less that a year the school would be unrecognisable. It’s Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge ridding the world of adult reason and allowing unfettered anarchy to fill the vacuum.
The irony is that it was a strong, unswerving individual who made the school a good one in the first place. Not Nurse Ratchet, but somebody not to be argued with.
This is the puzzling crevice through which falls our reasonable understanding of freedom and democracy.
Too little and we are prisoners, too much and we lose the integrity of our reason.