Rod Serling’s This is the dimension of the
imagination has in the reality of today
presented a dish of tartare, which can be
any number of things depending on when
and where you discover it, from where you are
looking at it, or whether or not you are going
to have the opportunity to eat it, whether you
even want to, or under what circumstances
you will or won’t be shoveling it into your
own digestive system, who pays for it, if
anyone, the setting, your age, your experi
ence with ingesting raw meat, should you
have had any up to this point, etc., and whe
ther or not you are listening to political
commentary at the time, what we might have
called news at some point previous, while
ruminating over such potentially nausea
ting and/or appetizing topics. Are you the
master of your domain? Whose domain, if
any, do you master? Does multi-tasking
make you feel like a special master or a
target inundated by rubber-dipped (prac
tice) ordnance? Is this a story of war games
or good taste or both? Would you have any
better topics rolling around in your head if for
four out of the five past weekends you’d found
yourself ambulanced to then lying flat on a
bed in a local emergency room for no less
than twelve hours each trip? Thanks to
severe nausea and diarrhea, which you
can now predict in a fairly timely fashion
by the preceding set of burps that taste
precisely so, and the horrifying weakness
that comes in a slow enough crawl during
the process. Yes you can predict when it will
hit you to within a few seconds, so you now
manage to call the ambulance just in time
to throw up all over its cargo bay (and team)
once you are situated snugly inside its well.
Yes, you have known what is coming and
you are ready for it. You are at the ready
and have learned to have a bag packed
for these things that come like clockwork.
You go ahead. I’ll be right here. If logic
dictates, at least. Until about an hour
and forty five minutes from right, ahem,
excuse me...from right...ahem...hang on
just a second...from right. This. Moment....
even want to, or under what circumstances
you will or won’t be shoveling it into your
own digestive system, who pays for it, if
anyone, the setting, your age, your experi
ence with ingesting raw meat, should you
have had any up to this point, etc., and whe
ther or not you are listening to political
commentary at the time, what we might have
called news at some point previous, while
ruminating over such potentially nausea
ting and/or appetizing topics. Are you the
master of your domain? Whose domain, if
any, do you master? Does multi-tasking
make you feel like a special master or a
target inundated by rubber-dipped (prac
tice) ordnance? Is this a story of war games
or good taste or both? Would you have any
better topics rolling around in your head if for
four out of the five past weekends you’d found
yourself ambulanced to then lying flat on a
bed in a local emergency room for no less
than twelve hours each trip? Thanks to
severe nausea and diarrhea, which you
can now predict in a fairly timely fashion
by the preceding set of burps that taste
precisely so, and the horrifying weakness
that comes in a slow enough crawl during
the process. Yes you can predict when it will
hit you to within a few seconds, so you now
manage to call the ambulance just in time
to throw up all over its cargo bay (and team)
once you are situated snugly inside its well.
Yes, you have known what is coming and
you are ready for it. You are at the ready
and have learned to have a bag packed
for these things that come like clockwork.
You go ahead. I’ll be right here. If logic
dictates, at least. Until about an hour
and forty five minutes from right, ahem,
excuse me...from right...ahem...hang on
just a second...from right. This. Moment....
