We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The princess is caged in the consulate. The lady writer from Sacramento will eat your children’s brains. The shuttle that flew between San Francisco and Los Angeles in 1967 had a large smile painted on the nose. We called it “going on the smile.”
In October of 2009 I experienced what might be deemed a social affliction—common, I believe, in those who share with me a sensitivity to the changing currents of our culture and an infected zombie bite. Symptoms of this malaise include a vague sense of unease about the times we live in; an intense hunger for human flesh; and a preoccupation with narrative.
Understand that I am not saying that these symptoms persist. In fact if you step closer I will not only demonstrate my lack of interest in your grey matter but will also offer some cultural commentary that will make you consider California in a new light.
The question of self-pity.
I wrote those words in my journal more than once these past few months, wrote them whenever others, like you, refused to come closer and kept their rifles aimed at my head. It’s difficult not to sink into self-pity when no one believes you that you are not a zombie anymore and just want to give their head a hug. “Patient reveals an acute persecution complex and sense of alienation,” my therapist wrote in the period before I ate him.
That is, before he was consumed by the uncertainty of the times. Metaphorically.
In fact I, despite my jaundiced complexion, no longer crave brains. In fact I no longer crave any part of the human body, however succulent. In fact my current seat amongst the remains of your neighbor is entirely coincidental. An attempt to impose a narrative link between the two unrelated facts of his death and the layer of his blood coating my arms would be tempting but false.
Oh, I have some on my face too? Do you have a napkin or something?
No, I am as entirely human as I was when I wrote Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I know the cure for zombieism and I would love to tell you it.
But I need to whisper it in your ear. So come closer.
Closer.
There is something finally very moving about the scent of your cerebrospinal fluid.
Zombie Joan Didion Tries to Persuade You to Come Closer so She Can Eat Your Brains
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The princess is caged in the consulate. The lady writer from Sacramento will eat your children’s brains. The shuttle that flew between San Francisco and Los Angeles in 1967 had a large smile painted on the nose. We called it “going on the smile.”
In October of 2009 I experienced what might be deemed a social affliction—common, I believe, in those who share with me a sensitivity to the changing currents of our culture and an infected zombie bite. Symptoms of this malaise include a vague sense of unease about the times we live in; an intense hunger for human flesh; and a preoccupation with narrative.
Understand that I am not saying that these symptoms persist. In fact if you step closer I will not only demonstrate my lack of interest in your grey matter but will also offer some cultural commentary that will make you consider California in a new light.
The question of self-pity.
I wrote those words in my journal more than once these past few months, wrote them whenever others, like you, refused to come closer and kept their rifles aimed at my head. It’s difficult not to sink into self-pity when no one believes you that you are not a zombie anymore and just want to give their head a hug. “Patient reveals an acute persecution complex and sense of alienation,” my therapist wrote in the period before I ate him.
That is, before he was consumed by the uncertainty of the times. Metaphorically.
In fact I, despite my jaundiced complexion, no longer crave brains. In fact I no longer crave any part of the human body, however succulent. In fact my current seat amongst the remains of your neighbor is entirely coincidental. An attempt to impose a narrative link between the two unrelated facts of his death and the layer of his blood coating my arms would be tempting but false.
Oh, I have some on my face too? Do you have a napkin or something?
No, I am as entirely human as I was when I wrote Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I know the cure for zombieism and I would love to tell you it.
But I need to whisper it in your ear. So come closer.
Closer.
There is something finally very moving about the scent of your cerebrospinal fluid.