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"The living night is dissipated in the brightness of death." Michel Foucault – The Birth Of The Clinic.
It is medicine that will prescribe treatment upon biology until it is cured. Of course this includes the biology of the mind. Gender in the Anthropocene is Devonian; the fishy pharmakon pond scum that begins to crawl through the muck, popping one periscope eyeball out to view the treeless nostalgia of certainty and tradition.
And so I imagine Palmer tied to the couch and watching his blood jump from a hot needle. His face doesn't burst open and melt though, he becomes a woman through all of that biological imitation; 100 billion neurons tear to pieces every little bit of metaphysics.
The Thing is not an alien life form, it is all of us everyday of our lives; learning, trying to defeat old age, losing and creating ourselves within memory and emotion; crawling closer and closer with slimy fins to the paranoia smiling back at us; it surveys our courageous attempt to paint over translucent epistemology. We are not what we think we are; I am not me; I am like Palmer everyday of my life, tied to the couch, watching MacReady heat up a needle with a flamethrower.
