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It looks like magic. There you have it, only a few feet away, an ultra-precise cannon shooting electrons in your general direction, moving up and down at incredible speed, hitting the phosphor so fast it rips energy off it in the form of a miriad photons, turning the a dead screen into colors that look alive, almost as alive as the images it creates.
There's Geri Halwell, ex-Spice Girl par excellence, holding a dog on her lap, one of those disgusting carpet-covered cockroaches, and saying, This dog... he is practically a human being.
Insightful.
If the photons know what they were actually doing, would they stop mid way and turn back? You know, spontaneously transform into particles or whatever, maybe turn into a hammer to hit the viewer in the head for a change?
Television.
It looks like magic.
It's not.
But then, context is important. Ever notice how the TV screen, when it's turned off, is dark-gray? And how, when it's turned on, and it's nighttime in the movie, you actually see black? The black isn't there, it's not as if the TV can make the natural dark-gray of the screen appear darker, right?
We see it black because we want to. We see it, because it's what we expect. An elaborate prank our brain plays on us. We tell ourselves what to see. And if reality doesn't match our expectations, well, too bad for reality.
This would seem like a nice analogy for international politics in our world today, a clever ruse to say a few things about oil, guns and all, but it's not. What I'm talking about is food. More precisely, the chicken sandwich that is staring back at me from the coffee table.
I know, I know. I get carried away sometimes.
We entered the apartment and I ran into the kitchen, looking for food, Jordan following closely behind me, and I knew the expression she had without even looking at her: amusement.
The fridge was nearly empty but still a mess, like the remains of an ancient warzone. The immediate past, the thoughts, the McDonald's, vanished, it was, literally, a fight for survival worthy of the Discovery Channel. I managed to rescue some cooked chicken and a few pieces of bread from the wreckage, then closed the door. I couldn't stand the white emptiness anymore.
While I prepared the sandwich she announced she had to get something from her apartment a few blocks away, and left, but not before reminding me that while I eat the sandwich I should think about where I left the tape.
The tape? I said.
What we actually came here for, remember? She said, then closed the door. I took the sandwich with me to the living room and, succumbing to automatism, I turned on the TV.
Now I'm all alone, the sandwich over there, on the coffee table, silent, waiting for my next move, and I could swear it is trembling with excitement at the prospect of turning the tables and eating me whole, maybe take revenge for all the chicken sandwiches that have perished corageously in the line of fire.
I feel like a rodent, hanging on to my last piece of garbage with tiny hands, looking for a predator every which way, sniffing out the breeze, eyes narrowing, suspicious.
Context.
Meanwhile, I'm still hungry.
I look at the coffee table, and its quiet occupant.
Stupid anarchist know-nothing sandwich.
I'm Projecting? Maybe.
Paranoia? That, too.
But you know what they say: It's not paranoia if they're really after you.
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8:59:32 PM 
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