Mixed Metaphors For The Disease
Something I'm going to sew into my second frankenchild. In my head, this scene takes place in four places at the same time.
What do you see?
WIP Excerpt
If you could open the window please, I would like some air.
It is very small in here, you see. Its very quiet, and nothing ever changes. Nothing different is ever taken out or brought in. Just the same carousel of minutes and heartbeats, while days and lives tick away.
Nothing ever moves here. Movement requires a shift; changing angles. To move is to alter a position.
My position is compromising, and I can't lift a finger.
Everything plays out in this bleached down box where all I do is lay flat. My feet are cramped into a high arch and there is nowhere to stand that doesn't require assistance. There is no bathroom without an attendant, no lunch without a monitor, and no line without a leader. I wear what They have me wear. I let Them walk me around and pantomime stories. I let Them voice over my conversations with other people. When They are done, I go back in the little box where They can see me and there is no reason to move unless They give me one.
I don't rattle my bars. I don't beg Them to let me out and live my life. I don't want to struggle en pointe through the streets in a partnerless pas-de-deux with my arms held rigid in a frame without someone to guide my steps.
I cannot move on my own, but I can breathe. Please, all I request is fresh air.
Beyond my iron bars are inches of glass, and I can see whether it is light or dark outside. I can look at whatever weather there is. When you experience the same few images without any sensations, however, it begins to appear more like a screen saver.
I have no views of sunrises, full moons, or cascades of autumn leaves. I have clear blues, murky greys and dirty whites. Sometimes light catches through precipitation. Day after day, the colors rotate on mute.
I can't even hear the wind.
I don't need the dream car or Malibu beach house. I don't need the Nobel Peace Prize, and I don't need or want to be famous. Please, I just want to smell the rain.
The rain tells you everything.
I wouldn't be able to see the ground, but I would catch the scent of dampening grass. I would be able to hear the metronome of cicadas be overtaken by wind, percussion, and chimes. I would be able to feel the wind lift my hair and slide over my arms. I would know if it was the kind of rain someone might sing and splash in, or if it was a deluge someone would hurry through, warding off icy sheets with a newspaper on a sidewalk silent except for the water, the chatter of teeth, and the rattle of keys.
I would know if the air, the real air, was hot or cold. It would mean something was rising and falling outside of the sanitized, room-temperature vacuum. Room temperature. It doesn't relate to much outside of your nutrition until the air conditioning gives out and you don't feel any difference.
Nothing goes up and down except for me. I spend a lot of time down; where the audience can see me.
I only have lines and costumes. I only express emotions that apply to the scene. There isn't a step I take that hasn't already been mapped out by blocking.
The only thing that's mine is my breath, and I've been recycling the same canned oxygen for scenes, acts, and intermissions. My lungs feel weak, you see. I won't be able to say my lines if I can't breathe.
Please, would you just open my window? Just the window? I won't even reach my hands through the bars. I don't touch the bars. The bars keep out big brothers that would pop my head off; they protect me from directors that would contort me into an amputee slave. I just want something to touch me that isn't gloved or hypodermic, even if I can't see it.
Maybe even especially if I can't see it.
I just need a small breeze to infuse my blood with. Maybe it will loosen my joints. Maybe I'll be able to perform more elaborate acts. (Maybe I'll be able to lift my feet.)
I will keep inside all four walls. Open and close them as you need to.
Mercy, please. Kindness, please.
Please, may I...
May I, please, just have my own air?
PLEASE.
What do you see?
WIP Excerpt
If you could open the window please, I would like some air.
It is very small in here, you see. Its very quiet, and nothing ever changes. Nothing different is ever taken out or brought in. Just the same carousel of minutes and heartbeats, while days and lives tick away.
Nothing ever moves here. Movement requires a shift; changing angles. To move is to alter a position.
My position is compromising, and I can't lift a finger.
Everything plays out in this bleached down box where all I do is lay flat. My feet are cramped into a high arch and there is nowhere to stand that doesn't require assistance. There is no bathroom without an attendant, no lunch without a monitor, and no line without a leader. I wear what They have me wear. I let Them walk me around and pantomime stories. I let Them voice over my conversations with other people. When They are done, I go back in the little box where They can see me and there is no reason to move unless They give me one.
I don't rattle my bars. I don't beg Them to let me out and live my life. I don't want to struggle en pointe through the streets in a partnerless pas-de-deux with my arms held rigid in a frame without someone to guide my steps.
I cannot move on my own, but I can breathe. Please, all I request is fresh air.
Beyond my iron bars are inches of glass, and I can see whether it is light or dark outside. I can look at whatever weather there is. When you experience the same few images without any sensations, however, it begins to appear more like a screen saver.
I have no views of sunrises, full moons, or cascades of autumn leaves. I have clear blues, murky greys and dirty whites. Sometimes light catches through precipitation. Day after day, the colors rotate on mute.
I can't even hear the wind.
I don't need the dream car or Malibu beach house. I don't need the Nobel Peace Prize, and I don't need or want to be famous. Please, I just want to smell the rain.
The rain tells you everything.
I wouldn't be able to see the ground, but I would catch the scent of dampening grass. I would be able to hear the metronome of cicadas be overtaken by wind, percussion, and chimes. I would be able to feel the wind lift my hair and slide over my arms. I would know if it was the kind of rain someone might sing and splash in, or if it was a deluge someone would hurry through, warding off icy sheets with a newspaper on a sidewalk silent except for the water, the chatter of teeth, and the rattle of keys.
I would know if the air, the real air, was hot or cold. It would mean something was rising and falling outside of the sanitized, room-temperature vacuum. Room temperature. It doesn't relate to much outside of your nutrition until the air conditioning gives out and you don't feel any difference.
Nothing goes up and down except for me. I spend a lot of time down; where the audience can see me.
I only have lines and costumes. I only express emotions that apply to the scene. There isn't a step I take that hasn't already been mapped out by blocking.
The only thing that's mine is my breath, and I've been recycling the same canned oxygen for scenes, acts, and intermissions. My lungs feel weak, you see. I won't be able to say my lines if I can't breathe.
Please, would you just open my window? Just the window? I won't even reach my hands through the bars. I don't touch the bars. The bars keep out big brothers that would pop my head off; they protect me from directors that would contort me into an amputee slave. I just want something to touch me that isn't gloved or hypodermic, even if I can't see it.
Maybe even especially if I can't see it.
I just need a small breeze to infuse my blood with. Maybe it will loosen my joints. Maybe I'll be able to perform more elaborate acts. (Maybe I'll be able to lift my feet.)
I will keep inside all four walls. Open and close them as you need to.
Mercy, please. Kindness, please.
Please, may I...
May I, please, just have my own air?
PLEASE.
Replies
I really admire the craft of your writing. I\'m a big fan of detail. I\'d love to know more about what exactly the story is about as a whole and what this excerpt means to the story. Keep it up. It\'s really good and deserves encouragement.