If mysticism is, as one dictionary proclaims, an aim at “union with the Absolute, the Infinite, or God,” then I am a mystic. I do not, however, see this union in some airy-fairy light of emotional woo, but rather I see it as fleshy and physical—a hieros games in the corporeal. I see it as an exchange of heart, lungs, and a lobe of the liver. Scalpels and scars and rough twine must be involved. It is a panacea to the profane and an ecstasy of mortification to the divine.