Read My Lips - the blog

On some wholly different plane of existence

Hi. My name is Brian, with an "i." I am 32 years old and am totally alone. I am often surrounded by groups of people who stare at my body but don't see me. I quit "living" that day back in 1977 when my mother accidentally ran over my head with her car. I was four. Despite extensive damage to my brain, my heart and lungs continued to function normally. My poor despondent mother is so racked with guilt over her negligence that she refuses to allow doctors to disengage my feeding tube. Several doctors, priests, family members and friends have urged her to let me die. An equal number, if not more, of them urge her to allow me to live on. I can't speak for myself. I am stuck somewhere between the decaying emaciated worthless body laying on that hospital bed a few feet below and the bright light I can see overhead. I can feel its pull. Joyous music and mirthful laughter beckon. "Momma? I want to go now and play at God's house. Can I? Huh? Huh?"

What is that? It was just something that popped out of my head.

I am sure most of you creators know that you sometimes have no control over the flow. I know the seeds of this short piece were planted when someone was asking me to feel a bump on their head. I, of course, being less than expert on the layout of any cranium other than my own, felt nothing out of the ordinary. I then asked them to feel the crown of my head where I have a pronounced bump, at least to me. No one else ever seems to notice it, so I suppose it is nothing out of the ordinary, as well. I was asked, How'd you get that? Being the smartass that I am, I blurted out, I got it when I was a baby after my head got run over by a car. There was something about that concept that attracted me. I didn't immediately understand it to be connected to the Terri Schiaro affair, but does appear to be readily apparent after seeing the completed project.

Oddly, however, I only got a clear picture in my head of what I wanted to write while watching an episode of Psychic Detectives on Court TV. I admit that Brian's words easily flowed onto the electronic page. Could I possibly be channeling someone else's thoughts? Do any of you know this Brian, 32, alone, wanting to die? If you do, pat his hand for me. And, if it is possible to send anything back along the line, to you, Brian: Brian, my brother -- I do feel your brown* pain.

I suspect the reason for writing an actual story is due to discovering that I was not among the three finalists in this month's Blogging for Books contest. I was pretty proud of that entry. I kind of like the little blurb above, too. What do you think?

My navel is claiming to have beamed this whole idea into my head from some ultra-secret location. As if. End of report.

*I have no idea why I typed brown when I was thinking pain, but since we are somewhere out in the Twilight Zone already, I figured I'd share that with you instead of just deleting it.

Posted by Tiger at March 21, 2005 11:29 PM | TrackBack