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Lyrical Genius

13 November 2000
George is very, very, very small.

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes-

Started as a rash, but one which moved into the skin rather than out. Little red bumps which turned into blisters which then vanished. Until I saw that the bumps were still there, but under a layer of tissue; still soft, still hurting but not as visible. The next morning, and one application of hydrocortisone later, my skin was smooth and soft, but now there was an aching in my joints. In my bones.

End of the week, and it was crutches for me. The damn thing had moved into my marrow; down past the subcutaneous layer and through the adipose tissue. And stupidly enough, the pain had gone, but weak I was and tired too. Standing up wasn't going to happen and I fell down like sticks when I tried. Bones now made of soft Brighton rock and wouldn't support my weight. Soon after, my arms went too, though now bound in wide duct tape to give them extra strength. Seems to work; though I can't leave my bed, I can reach my water glass in the night when the dreams have passed.

-you drive me crazy, I just can't sleep-

Yes, tired, but can't do anything with it. Sleep doesn't arrive at night until late, and even before the itching happened there were problems in getting unconscious. I'd lie awake and look at the lines of the wallpaper around my bed and the pictures on the wall. When the streetlights went back from yellow to red as the light came, I'd have had maybe a two hour respite from the lines, but not much more. And this wearied me more than it maybe otherwise would have; seeing those vertical stripes for six straight hours in the dark maybe wouldn't be so boring if there was the prospect of something to do in the morning. But being bedbound (legs and arms still in only minor function), I knew that all I had to look forward to were more stripes but in daylight.

The itching, like I said; after a few days of being bedbound a strange feeling in my upper body. Not like the aches of before or even the initial rash, but something further in me. Maybe not even itching, more of a tickling; "Someone running a feather down inside my veins" was how I described it to the nurse and she wouldn't help me out of bed after that. When I ate (not much, I can't hold the spoon for the soup) I could feel it going down the past the tickle, each mouthful of Cream of Tomato being brushed by the feathers. Not fucking pleasant.

It seemed to condense. At first, a big sphere of flesh inside my body was being harassed by the damn feather holder, but this shrunk and the intensity heightened. Now it was a frisky gerbil spinning in its wheel in my chest and stopping me kipping.

-something deep inside I can feel but I can't touch-

It knotted in my heart. Stopped breathing for seven minutes when the nurse and her assistant were bashing on my breastbone to try and bring me back again; even that didn't dislodge the bastard rodent. Still twitching away, no amount of movement or hitting getting any type of response. I ate black pepper and chillies from my prostrate position to try and bring on a coughing fit to bring the thing up.

Then it moved. Inside my heart.

Didn't rip its way in there, or even slide through a split in a seam. Before I'd eaten my tea - Cream of Chicken - it was wrapped around the pulsing, but after tea it was in it. Beating away. Hamster bongo drums are us. Or more specifically, me, as I haven't heard of anyone else with this type of thing. The nurse as mentioned gave me funny looks when I tried to explain the symptoms and judging by the lack of medication and care, I really don't think that she understands. She didn't believe that there was anything wrong at all but now. She does now.

-open your heart to me, darlin'-

If you are feeling squeamish, or if you've just eaten, then I wouldn't recommend that you carry on with this. But this is the last stretch and I promise that I'll stop soon. Quite simply, my heart came out of my chest. Burst out really, shades of "Alien" and just as bloody. Unlike John Hurt's mishaps though, my little pumping twitching organ didn't peg it off down the stairs and out to the shop. It bounced back really, attached by tendons or goo or something. Acres of gore dripping down my body and onto the carpet, most of it sinking in but the clots staying on top. And it didn't hurt; when she fainted and decked herself on the wardrobe door, the nurse probably was in more pain than me. But by then I think all nerve endings had been killed off, and several months of no sleep and liquid lunches had reduced my being to eyes, thin muscle and skin.

Cleaned up the mess as much as could be, but decided that the heart couldn't be pushed back inside, so the skin around it was flayed back ("gives it more room") and stitched; see the opening pages of "The Doll's House" to see where the surgeons got that idea from, fucking would-be goths. Put me in a giant glass tank at first but got scared by the lawsuits from Hirst and Morris (independently, incidentally) so it's the velvet cushions in the path lab for me. Free food, free books, the radio always a degree or two from Heart FM.

I don't mind the doctors on their own, or even in groups. What's pissing me off royally though is the doctors' and medics' other halves that they bring in to gawp. Standing there, holding hands, whispering. Such a fucking cliché.

-that's how I feel for you-

-my heart is yours-

-for you I'd bleed myself dry-


Previously on upsideclown


Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
10 November 2003. George writes: Dead beat
20 October 2003. George writes: Shortening
29 September 2003. George writes: Manhattanites are Cleavage-Starved
11 September 2003. George writes: How to Bring Us in Line With the Future
18 August 2003. George writes: Slashtastic
28 July 2003. George writes: Underground Independent Small Press Comic Fight Club
7 July 2003. George writes: Careering
16 June 2003. George writes: Choose your own adventure
26 May 2003. George writes: Revelations
8 May 2003. George writes: Picture Perfect
14 April 2003. George writes: MetaPirate
24 March 2003. George writes: Preparation X
3 March 2003. George writes: F of x
13 February 2003. George writes: Three is the magic number
23 January 2003. George writes: Recorded Delivery
30 December 2002. George writes: Meat Bingo or Death
12 December 2002. George writes: Royal Inquisitor
21 November 2002. George writes: This Clown is Cancelled
28 October 2002. George writes: Shopping with God
3 October 2002. George writes: SaferSpoony
16 September 2002. George writes: Supercalanthropomorphicexpealidocious
26 August 2002. George writes: The deformed animal menagerie
5 August 2002. George writes: Plaice that Funky Music, Whitebait
15 July 2002. George writes: Safe as Houses
24 June 2002. George writes: Two Lions (DB/DS)
30 May 2002. George writes: Series 8
9 May 2002. George writes: Market Stall
11 April 2002. George writes: I, the Enlargened, Crunchy Product
18 March 2002. George writes: Cakexterminator
21 February 2002. George writes: Fiction Suit
28 January 2002. George writes: Spunk Gunk
31 December 2001. George writes: Fairytale of New Pork
10 December 2001. George writes: Circular
15 November 2001. George writes: A Man With No Ass Is No Man At All
22 October 2001. George writes: One Night in Heaven
27 September 2001. George writes: Uncut
3 September 2001. George writes: Porn Pants
9 August 2001. George writes: Names of the Roses
19 July 2001. George writes: No Fun Here
21 June 2001. George writes: All Your Elections are Belong to Us
28 May 2001. George writes: Pierced as Fuck
3 May 2001. George writes: My Lovely Horse
9 April 2001. George writes: Eight Hundred and Forty-Three
12 March 2001. George writes: Kill 'Em All
19 February 2001. George writes: Formal
25 January 2001. George writes: Sticks and stones
11 January 2001. George writes: A Thought on Morality
11 December 2000. George writes: You can't put that into a soufflé
13 November 2000. George writes: Lyrical Genius
19 October 2000. George writes: Wet wet wet wet wet
25 September 2000. George writes: Built on an Indian burial ground
31 August 2000. George writes: This Way
31 July 2000. George writes: Runt of the Litter

Let meeeeee entertain you


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