Jamar Coleman

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moviebemka.com
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Publisher: the wave
Bio: instagram: @ ny.asiaa_ ?

Thriller, Sci-Fi 90m &ref(https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BZDc0ZTIzZjEtNWIzZS00MTI0LWI5ZDQtMDg4Y2M1OWQ1YmQ5XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyOTMzOTMzMTg@._V1_UX182_CR0,0,182,268_AL_.jpg) creators=Carl W. Lucas Release Year=2019 USA. It was the advertisement’s outright simplicity that caught my attention. “Revolutionize science! Earn $5000! Call us now! ” I wish I could say I didn’t know why I called them. I wish I could say it was some act of God or deception that drove me into their waiting arms. But that would be a lie. The truth is I called them because I needed the money. Because I had gotten laid off at the publishing company I worked at and I was having trouble finding steady work. Because I was months behind on rent and facing my second eviction notice. Because I didn’t want to be a failure. I called them for selfish reasons. Who are they? I’m not exactly sure. In retrospect, their obvious obfuscation of their identity should have been a red flag to me. But at the time, their request seemed too interesting, their reward too vital, for me to risk losing the chance to help them. My best guess is that they’re a group of private researchers that are funded by some super-corporation. They must be. Otherwise, there was no way they would have been able to pay for the machine. They showed me the machine the first time I met with them. It was kept in a cavernous room in the basement of a five-story office building. It was a work in progress at that time ? they were still connecting pipes and soldering wires. But even in an unfinished state, it looked truly magnificent. “Have you ever heard of a sensory deprivation chamber? ” I had. In fact, I had actually been inside one before, when I was in college. Back then, I was on a real hippy-dippy spiritual journey. You know, meditating a lot, experimenting with psychedelic drugs. Primarily magic mushrooms. At some point along that journey, I felt motivated to spend an hour of my life (and sixty dollars of my student loans) inside a sensory deprivation chamber at a local spa. Your standard sensory deprivation chamber is a large metal tank filled with about a foot of salt water. You step in and float in the water, then someone (a spa attendant, in my case) closes off the tank so it’s completely dark. With your vision obscured and your body suspended in the water, it’s supposed to feel like you no longer have your two primary senses. Depending on who you ask, this is supposed to be relaxing, enhance your creative process, allow you to reach higher consciousness, hallucinate, or maybe gain magic powers. My experience with the chamber in college was fairly lackluster. I remember that the water was too frigid and the salt made my skin itch. It was difficult to concentrate on meditating or channeling my inner chakra or whatever the spa had promised. Truthfully, I did always wonder what it would have been like to get in one of those things while tripping on some magic mushrooms, but I never had the opportunity. This sensory deprivation chamber didn’t look anything like the one I used in college. This chamber looked like a vivisected suit of medieval armor strewn across a large metal table. Thousands of tubes and wires connected to the metal body, which was about three times larger than my own body. The head or “helmet” of the chamber was collosal and round with a big brass pipe running out of its crown into the tiled-floor beneath it. On the walls surrounding the chamber were fifty or sixty computer screens, twenty or so server boxes, and various iterations of medical equipment that I couldn’t name if I tried. It dawns on me now that the utility bills and computers alone for the machine must have been many tens of times higher than the measly $5000 they offered me, not to mention the salaries of the dozens of labcoat-clad scientists manning those computer screens. Again, perhaps this should have raised alarm bells, but I ignored it with the focused ignorance of a man who was on the brink of homelessness. The man who showed me the machine told me his name was Dr. Monason. He was a wrinkled, balding man with a clean shave and focused eyes of blue. When I saw him, he was always clad in blue scrubs and a clean white labcoat. Dr. Monason was the primary liaison for my involvement on this project. He explained the machine’s purpose, brought me the necessary waivers, and answered all my questions. Questions like, “So what exactly am I supposed to do? ” “We want you to remain in our sensory deprivation chamber for three days. ” I’m sure my expression betrayed my sense of shock. “Three days? Is that ? I mean will ? Will that kill me? ” “You probably would still be alive after three days in pure isolation, though you would likely become gravely ill and suffering from immense dehydration. Regardless, the machine will hydrate, feed, and otherwise sustain you during the experiment. So there is no risk of bodily harm. ” Dr. Monason went on to explain how the machine worked. “In your standard deprivation chamber, the occupant is deprived of their sense of sight, feeling, and, to a lesser extent, hearing. This deprivation, this process of shutting the outside world out from the occupant’s mind, decreases the burden on their brain. Thus, the occupant’s mind is free to wander more freely ? free to think more creatively, to undergo a deeper state of thinking, to meditate, and so on. “But there is a problem with standard sensory deprivation chambers. Although the brain is freed from most external stimuli, the visual and auditory, the brain will continue to be burdened by internal stimuli. That is to say that the brain is still very aware of its own carrier ? the human body. The brain will still react to the hunger and thirst of the vessel that carries it. It will still process both the need to and the action of urination and defecation. These internal interruptions go on and on, but the point is that standard sensory deprivation chambers cannot truly be said to deprive the occupant of their senses. “This machine is not your standard sensory deprivation chamber. ” Even a cursory glance at the machine made clear what the doctor meant. “The inside of the exoskeleton portion of the machine is lined with a soft rubber that will acclimate to maintain the exact temperature of human skin. The tubes and wires control and regulate a wide variety of bodily functions. Through these tubes, the body is automatically fed and hydrated. The unsavory functions of the body are handled with a catheter and another series of tubes. A respirator automates breathing and regulates saliva production. “Even the body’s natural sense of touch is completely removed while in the machine. This IV cord injects a numbing solution into the bloodstream that completely shuts off all feeling. The numbing agent is the most critical asset of our sensory deprivation process. ” The list went on and on. It became clear that they had truly accounted for everything. Even for me. I was one of hundreds of applicants to be part of the experiment. For the first time in my life, I was the first round draft pick. The scientists explained to me that I had been chosen for three reasons. Number one: I had no prior history of mental or physical illness that would make my experience in the chamber subject to “intervening variables. ” Their words, not mine. Number two: My height and weight were close matches for the machine’s original shape. “Although the legs will have to be lengthened ever so slightly, you are by far the closest match to our initial design. ” And number three, the most critical: There was nothing happening outside of that chamber that would lead to an early termination of the experiment. I had no significant other, no job, no living family members ? not even a houseplant to take care of. They could breathe easy knowing that I would remain peacefully within their contraption for the entire length of the experiment. Number three was important to the scientists. They had specifically designed the machine to allow for three full days of isolation. If the machine’s process had to be interrupted early, it would take them a month to reset the machine and run the experiment again. Unfortunately, reason number three also meant there was nobody to come looking for me. The intake process was long and detailed. I signed what felt like hundreds of liability waivers. I listened to warning after warning about the potential side effects. “Although it is apparent that you have a clean bill of health, you should be aware the isolation process may be taxing on you. Our preliminary research suggests that disassociation, audio and visual hallucinations, depression, time dilation, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and other neuroses are potential effects. However, we believe such effects to be unlikely. ” They had given me several weeks to prepare for the experiment. My only requirement during that time was that I didn’t substantially change my bodyweight or somehow develop bipolar disorder. Somehow, I managed. I spent those few weeks living normally ? watching movies, applying for jobs, getting rejected for those jobs, and reading a few books. When the day came, I was nervous despite Dr. Monason’s efforts to prepare me. “The process will come in stages. At first, you may endure a mild state of stress. We anticipate that soon after, you will drift into a moderate state of euphoria for the remainder of the process. You will be signaled a few minutes before the experiment is over by a short audio queue. This way, you will emerge from your state of sensory deprivation slowly and be able to re-acclimate without any risk of shock. ” He played the audio queue for me, which was a short musical clip of bells ringing. Then, with little ceremony or deliberation, I was asked to asked to remove my clothing and climb inside the machine. As I lay down inside the exoskeleton, I felt the warm rubber against my bare skin. Even with the chamb

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