Sunday, June 12, 2011

Let me look in.

A few months ago, I wrote a song based on a short story I wrote in 2004.  I recorded the song yesterday and then went on a bike ride.  On said bike ride, I recorded some video on my camera and plopped it together in a video editing program I stumbled across the other night.

Here it is:

The story was written while in a paper mill in Kimberly, WI.  I sat on my tow-motor and wrote it on a scrap I peeled off of a thousand pound roll of paper while waiting for the winder to spit out a few more rolls for me to move.  It's not my favorite thing I've ever written, but I still think the idea is pretty interesting.

Anyways, here it is:

Let me look in

Let me look through your skin, past your bones, and into the deepest parts of your body.  I know it sounds a little perverted, but I want to be inside you.  To go in as far as I can go and fall asleep atop your stomach.  I could sit, legs crossed beneath me, and look over either shoulder and watch your lungs slowly inflate and relax.  I’d listen as the oxygen is drawn in and slowly released, trying to time my own breath to match yours.  I could reach a hand over and draw small, circular designs on your intestines, whistling or humming to myself.  I could reach over and grab your gall bladder, or maybe a kidney or two, and play catch with myself.  Or maybe I could drag my hand along your ribcage like an old washing board, scratching out simple time signatures.  However, I’d most likely lie back on the soft cushion of your stomach and watch your beating heart.  I would trace along your veins as the blood is funneled through.  After a short while I would figure out the rhythm and tap along on my leg, adding slight syncopations every so often to spice things up.  I might even reach a hand up and grab hold of the beating muscle.  I wouldn’t grab hard enough to constrict it, but just enough to feel the slight movement within my hand.  I would hold it this way until my arms grew tired, experiencing you in the most simple, intimate way possible.  When I couldn’t hold my hands above my head anymore, I would lie back down and watch your rhythmically pulsating heart as I fell asleep.

But perhaps I would grow tired of the situation.  Perhaps after crawling inside, I would find it cramped and uncomfortable. I would look in disgust at all the dripping pieces of you flopping around me, each of them performing their own repulsing action simultaneously in perpetual motion.  I would look down at my seat of yesterday’s food, and up at your tar-filled lungs processing smoke and other pollutants.  I would first push my right arm up and into the warmness above me, blindly reaching around since I’d have to look down to avoid the falling liquids.  My arm would eventually find its tunnel and move to the right until it reached the end.  My other arm would mirror the action of the first.  With my new-found sleeves, I’d kick my legs down as hard as I could until they found tunnels of their own.  People around you would notice your right arm start to bulge at the shoulder and move towards your hands.  A kid might say it looks like the balloon animal a clown made for him at a birthday party.  The bystanders would watch in horror as the same thing happened to your left arm, then both of your legs while you scream in excruciating pain.  After finding proper resting points for all my extremities, I’d make the final escape.  Using my arms and the tunnels they found as hoists, I’d start to pull myself up.  The onlookers would notice your arms flailing about wildly as if you believed if you flapped hard enough, you just might be able to fly.  All of a sudden, fluid would start shooting from your mouth, gargling your screams.  Bystanders would either turn away, vomit, or watch through the fingers covering their eyes.  Eventually your screams would become muted, leaving you with only the ability to gasp for the air that has ceased to come as your neck begins to slowly swell.  Beginning at the base of your neck is what would look to be a small basketball working its way up, much like when a snake is in the process of swallowing a smaller animal, except in reverse.  Your eyes would bulge as if they might pop right out of your head as they become as red as the blood pouring from your ears, nose, and mouth.  I’d continue pulling myself up.  The basketball in your neck would slowly rise, emitting a slight stretching sound with an occasional crack or pop, each of which would send your body into a slight convulsion.  Finally, when the basketball reached the top of the neck, I’d break free of my prison, wearing a brand-new suit and various fluids dripping from my face and hair.  I’d look down to notice your head lying next to my (your) feet, eyes wide open, tongue hanging from the side of your mouth, blood draining from all available holes.  I’d look at my (your) arms which would resemble yours, just inflated.  As I walk away from the crowd that would be sure to gather around me (us) when I first climbed in, I’d realize this to be the closest I have ever let myself get to somebody, and it would feel good.

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