|Musical Visions : My Weakness|
Written during a terrible bout with the flu. My fever and headache had been exceptionally high during the night, and I was too hot and sore to sleep and too tired to wake up fully. I started thinking (somehow) about Moby's "My Weakness", and for some reason this image of a guy who is sicker than me popped into my head.
The next afternoon I got up and, aided by Ibuprofen, wrote this while the song looped on WinAmp (I think it took about 20 minutes), and...
This is my most stylized story ever, though very visual as always, and I hope it's disturbing and that it trips your imagination.
If Moby's tunes are your thing, try and sync the story with it, it should take about 3 minutes and 37 seconds.
Fade from black... as the camera spins erratically, turning up onto a vertical axis over an unmade bed, focusing finally on a man. He lies awkwardly, the sheets and blankets rumpled and pushed aside, his arms and legs lay as if he was thrown onto the bed. The twisting and turning orbit of the camera somehow manages to keep his face in focus, and bits of the room - all messy - are visible during some of the more stable moments.
As the music begins to pick up, the action slows and the camera’s movement becomes more stable as the image zooms onto his face. His face; torn by pain or fever, or perhaps the inner demons of his own memory, is frozen in an oddly gentle rictus of agony, the look of one who has succumbed to the peace of unconsciousness, leaving his subconscious mind to fight alone while his body receives some measure of respite.
And the camera finds his left eye, -still open, unfocused- and we slowly crawl into its inner blackness. Darkness comes, and-
The colors are twisted, psychotic blues and a touch of a blur tint the image that we are now a part of. The landscape we see is a lush green plain of rolling hills and a blue sky, yet the bizarre coloring shows us that is it not a peaceful scene we view - rather, a scene of sinister nightmare, thinly disguised in its veil of peace.
The music crawls into a sobbing cry, and our image moves down, around - and we find below us the man from the bed before. He staggers as one drunk or in great pain, and after a few quavery steps falls to his knees, denting the soft ground beneath and breaking the cover of the green grasses to show the rich brown-black of the soil.
Our view moves down to the top of his head, the hairs matted and sweat-soaked, and rotates down until his face fills the frame. It is no longer torn by some inner agony, but his eyes are full of unshed tears, and the surrounding face seems to be a wall, resisting the tides of sorrow pushed upon it by the weak and traitorous eyes.
The wall slowly crumbles, and turning to view his profile, we see the tears come streaming from his eyes - and throwing his head back, a scream tears itself from his throat. On and on it shrieks, echoing off the seeming-soft hills that show themselves now for what they are: prison walls in this nightmare dream.
Camera: rotating around, and finishing where it began - facing the tormented. Arms thrown wide, fists clenched tightly, his scream seems to be alive of itself - no part of the tears dripping steadily down the sides of his face.
As abruptly as it started, the scream ceases, the echoes stopping instantly, and he convulsively pulls his arms in to his chest. Head down, face enveloped by his once-clenched hands, there is brief silence - but the music plays on, relentlessly driving him onward, and it climbs now into its final end.
"Why?" he moans, or perhaps says "No..." But the end has come. He is knocked forwards, left arm outstretched, fingers grasping the ground in a futile attempt to ward off the inevitable.
The fingers, -nails full of grit- meet hands, fists full of grass and soil - and slowly crumble, merging with the dust they hold. He - we? - sob convulsively, and it is a plea for respite from destiny.
No avail. The camera coolly shows the hand, arm - and the entire self slowly fails, clothing crumpling without support; and then, as the music begins to fade away, the camera swings up- over the silhouette of clothing -and even that remnant fades away as the camera spins on its axis, the colors fading...
...And rolls in from black to rest in an open doorway. A room, a bed - the same? Ours-his? It is empty and neatly made, pillows undimpled by fevered heads, the room clean and orderly -
- and the music stops.
(March 25th, 2003, 10:36 pm)
I love this. It flows and seems almost to be alive of itself.
Its so emotive and beautifully descriptive. Such despair is incredibly hard to put into imagery so well. Very well done. Esp as it leaves it so wonderfully open ended and upto the readers imagination to use at will.
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