Jerusalem Syndrome - Marc Maron [39]
I had surrendered my will to a small 11/2-by-2-inch viewfinder. That was the context of my experience. I was walking through an illusion that I controlled and could hold in my hand. I was the Jewish king of this very small land.
I got to the top before the others. I lit a cigarette. It was about 150 degrees outside. My skin was melting. I had the Dead Sea framed in my small square universe as I panned the region. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked the camera.
Then, a miracle happened. The camera just broke! It made a clicking sound, followed by a breaking apart of the image on the screen, followed by a whirring noise, and then it just fizzled out. I screamed, “You gotta be kidding. This isn’t happening. We’re only four days out.”
My wife walked up. “What’s the matter, baby?” she asked innocently.
“The fucking camera broke,” I squalled. “There’s no point now. We gotta go home.” I was pacing and looking at the camera.
“What are you talking about?” She was immediately irritated.
“I was gonna look God in the face,” I yelled. “And get it on tape.”
“Maybe we should get you into the shade,” she said, concerned.
Then I had that moment when I just wanted to throw the camera over the edge. You know, when something mechanical breaks and you just want to break it more to show it who’s boss? Then I thought ahead and pictured the humiliation of looking over the edge and saying, “It’s really broken now, honey. I can see it down there. Maybe I should go down and get it.”
I didn’t do that. I dropped down to my knees and prayed to Sony.
“Please work, Sony. I know you’re a good product. Please, Sony, bring the camcorder back to me.”
I shook the camcorder. I pushed all of the buttons. I coddled it. I even kissed it. I tried to blow the digital breath of life into the camera, but I don’t have it in me. I hunched over the camera in my hands, defeated.
Then I realized, Hey, wait a minute. This might be exactly what I was waiting for. Maybe this was God saying, “Put the camera down. Don’t have a mediated experience. Look at Israel through your own eyes and your heart. Get down on your hands and knees and kiss the ground of the homeland as a Jew.”
That’s what I thought God was saying. So, I said, “Okay, I get it. I hear you. Hang on a minute. Sony is fucking me! Not just Sony but The Wiz is fucking me! The Wiz is an evil wizard! I knew I was going to get fucked! No warranty, of course. My camera came off of the no-warranty-shit shelf!”
So, then I astral-projected myself back to The Wiz. I didn’t know if I still could, but it’s like riding a bike. You never forget how. I flew over deserts, mountains, oceans, and continents in a matter of seconds. I flew right through the doors of The Wiz and grabbed Groovy Guy by the ponytail and began bashing his head against the counter. I dragged him around the store by the hair. I screamed, “Is there a camera in here that works so I can tape you crying, you fucking asshole?!”
Then I flew out of the store, up Madison to Fifty-fifth Street to the Sony headquarters. Right past security. “I got a problem with a product. Put the guns down!” On into the corner office and into the face of the executive in charge of ruining my vacation who stood between me and the Almighty. “I believed in your product. I had faith in the quality of your product. I had hope for spiritual enlightenment through your product, and it fucking broke. Now you have to reckon with me!”
Then, everything started spinning. Apparently I had been out of my body too long. I heard my old friend Nancy’s voice from the Green House echoing in my head: “That’s called astral projection. Don’t fuck with that.