[We'll drag Anna herself into this mess. Pawnee, the pharmakon/pharmakos, is also Pharmacia. A nymph who ruled over a poisonous spring (liquid is the element of the pharmakon, after all). Pharmacia was the friend of Orithyia, who later became the goddess of cold mountain winds. Here is our Anna. Wind — breath. Breath — speech — creation. The Judeo-Christian God bestowed life onto man by breathing into his nostrils the breath of life. But even before this, it was His speech that created everything. God said, Let there be light: and there was light. God’s speech wasn’t just incidental, a transmission of the message; no, it was the message itself. Only on the rough lips of man would speech retreat to mimesis. God created the universe with speech—and there’s the secret: His first creation, before Creation as such, was speech itself. But wait — did God create speech? Or was it the other way around? “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” The Gospel of John seems to conflict with Genesis’ account of what happened “in the beginning.” Here, God doesn’t use the word, the Word uses God. It is the orginary Word from which all things flow, including speech, including man, including God. Can we really trust John’s gospel, though? After all, the gospel isn’t the Word of God, it’s the words of man. The written words of man. Christ was the Word made flesh, but Adam and his descendents weren’t. Let’s go to Genesis 1:26 and 27. “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness… So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.” Note that God didn’t say “Let there be man.” No, He spoke to Himself: “Let us make man.” And then He created him; He didn’t speak him. Genesis 1:27 is so insistent on this distinction that it repeats its claim of creation, not speaking, thrice (slightly rephrased on each instance). In other words, Genesis denies our claim to divinity three times. Perhaps this is why we cannot speak with the same consequences as when God speaks. Instead, we settled for the much more insidious substitute: the pharmakon of writing. Of course John would write that “in the beginning was the Word.” He was trying, probably not even consciously, to put himself on par with God. Because what is writing but our attempt to do just that? To create? Consider: what was man’s first instinct when he had fallen? To reach for a leaf to cover himself. Not a literal leaf, but a figurative one (a fig. leaf). “Leaf” as in “page.” When man falls, he immediately clutches onto writing and refuses to ever let it go again. God intervened and expelled man from Eden for fear that he eat of the fruit of life and become as a god himself, but by then, it was already too late. Man had stolen the word, the power to create. Not the Word, though; the word. The written word, the inferior, warped copy. God spoke the universe into being; now man may re-create it by writing it. Never create it again, but change it, or, rather, change his own perception of it. And, at last, we circle back to where we started. Pawnee and the pharmakon. Anna has already explicitly established Pawnee as Eve, implicitly established me as the serpent, and meta-implicitly established herself as God, wind, breath, creation. But as the serpent, I gave Eve words. And since this is a world of words, who’s really more powerful here, God or the serpent? Anna would have Pawnee refuse my gift, which would allow Anna, the Word, to be secure in her position as God. Letting her re-make the world, re-write the Word, in her (Her?) own image. But what if Pawnee, that unpredictable pharmakon, makes the other choice? What if she reaches for the leaf? And what leaf will it be? The metaphorical “leaf” of written text, of course. But also, it will surely be the leaf of the hemlock. Conium maculatum. Maculate: spotted; stained. Tainted. By the pharmakon. The myth goes that the hemlock plant only became poisonous because it happened to be growing on the hill where Jesus was crucified. When His blood fell on the plant (stained it), it instantly became toxic. Liquid of the Word made flesh transforming the leaf from innocent to poisonous; flipping it on its invisible axis. But, of course, we know that it was toxic long before that. Socrates swallowed a concoction of hemlock when condemned to death by Athens. Hemlock—poison—would have been referred to by the Greeks as a pharmakon. And, as such, both was and was not the very poison that it very much was. It was also a remedy. Because Socrates was a pharmakos. He, born on the sixth day of the Thargelia (the sixth day — when God wordlessly created man), was the sacrifice that purified Athens. The hemlock became a hymn. The poison became a remedy. Conium maculatum became immaculate. How miraculous. Through the hemlock, the boundaries of Athens solidified — the hem was locked. Yet, in this locking, it, everything, was freed. So I ask again: will Pawnee take the hemlock?] probably shouldn’t trust you, Anna. But god damn it, I do.” Pam sighed, reached a hand down to Pawnee, and helped her to her feet. “You’ve persuaded me. It is worth the risk, and the sacrifice. Pawnee, when it comes time, I won’t stand in your way.” Anna smiled. “Thank you.” “Let’s just get going,” Pam said. She began walking again, and the girls followed. #DetectivePony