How can a completely sane person be Incompetent to stand trial? Not guilty by reason of insanity? Me, with a mental health disorder? That’s crazy. What am I doing in a state hospital for the criminally insane? I am a writer with intellectual property. My only guilt is about my mother. I ran away because I had to save my life from her murderous attacks, and I stayed away. The deputies who came found no obvious signs of trauma to her body. It was only the coroner’s autopsy report that nailed me for homicide. I’ve never hurt a flea. Let me read you what I wrote after driving home crying hysterically for the mother I never had. Let me read it to you before the doctor comes back to walk me to the day room where I have to crouch down with real crazies who should be in lockdown. The judge said 19 years and 8 months for the commission of a willful act of murder. I am not a violent person. I am a writer. I am the victim here. Word for word. From my journal, the only thing they allowed me to bring with me. I will use this as evidence if they ever try to make the sentence stick after evaluation. Sit still and listen. You are my witnesses and need to testify about my mental condition. Here is what I wrote. Now you be the judge. Here’s my story.
“Am I dreaming? Am I not yet awake? This thing is as real as the hand I hold up in front of me; in fact, it is holding my finger? The reality is this little creature who looks a lot like me in miniature is pinching my finger, and what is most disturbing, is it is speaking to me in a mousey squeak urging me to stand up, get dressed, and go somewhere. Oh God I have died and this is the afterlife where I am duplicated by a fly sized thing that talks. This fantasy at my finger hurts like a needle. I will close my eyes, roll over and go back to sleep and have a real dream. It must be the jalapeños in the salsa last night. This thing has flown to the back of my neck It is urging me to get up. I’m dressing as it orders me to hurry. What are we doing you little brain bug, you little undigested refried bean? It flies to my car keys. We go to my car. I drive recklessly to wake up. The little buzzer flits about me like a loud bumblebee. “Can this thing go faster?” It squeaks. It’s four in the morning and I am driving too fast. Why can’t I wake up? This could be a cosmic computer game with story board widgets or an LSD flashback. I need to tie my head to keep my jaw from dropping. “Here!” the pipsqueak screams. “We’re going here.” It’s a crappy little house. The miniscule nuisance is in my hair as I ring the bell. The creature peeps, “it’s open.” The handle is loose. I go inside and into the bedroom She’s on her bed, an ancient woman laid out in cobwebs. Her eyes are glass Then I see them sitting and standing on the windowsill, maybe thirty or forty of those little people like my tormentor, all dressed in black, all chirping my language like insects. I squint to inspect these well-proportioned, formally dressed wee people slightly bigger than horseflies Are they praying or screaming obscenities at me? I grab a tiny male figure and hold him up to my face. His features are perfectly beautiful. Wondering if he sweats under his little tuxedo, I squeeze him slightly and whisper, “What’s happening here?” He peeps with a little voice “She talked about you all the time. She was so proud of you.” I sit down on the bed holding him tightly between fingers. He doesn’t struggle. I tell him “She never loved me. She was a madwoman.” I wonder, did she see these little people who are now flocking through the window and blanketing the bed? They stare at me wringing their hands. A chorus of miniature women weeps on her pillow. I go into the kitchen and call the operator who connects me to the county coroner. “You did the right thing” someone says. We will be there shortly. I return to the bedroom. The old woman is still there. I look out the open window. Under the bed. I am the only living thing in the room. I am now completely awake. Completely alone.” Now I ask you, how would you little bug people judge me? You were there all the time: you can testify she was long dead when I got there. Oh God, don’t fly off. Come back here and let them see you. It’s just the deputy and my advocate come to get me out of here. Don’t desert me now when I need you. Get back here!
Shirin Abedinirad, House in the Wind, 2017. Land art, Marrakesh, Morocco. Created in collaboration with Nikon and BMW Mini, the work imagines the desert as an open studio where, in the artist’s words, “my studio has no walls, no roof, and no borders.” With sky as ceiling, horizons as walls, and wind, mirrors, clouds, and sand as collaborators, the installation becomes a meditation on nature as partner, sanctuary, and boundless space of belonging. Artwork courtesy of featured artist Shirin Abedinirad.
