Remember that thread at that place where I used to post? The place some guy sitting in front of a computer built and then shut down? Well, that thread was about the difficulty some of use experience when writing or collaging about beings of different sizes. We have a great idea for a story, but we get so into it while we are writing it that we have to stop and reach and touch ourselves.
It happens to me when I’m collaging, or writing, or just sitting down thinking about collaging or writing. It happened to me when someone was tagged on Facebook, and I saw the photo and this someone was standing next to an octobass. It didn’t hurt that the gentleman (not in the image at the left-I would never use “real” people for this blog) was rather fetching, but what really did it was the size of that thing.
My first thought (when I could finally have one) was, “That would make a perfect little violin for me.” But when I first saw it… you know what happened, because it happens to you as well. Sure, with different stimuli, but it happens. All chance of coherent thought is gone, your skin is flushed, your pants are on fire (and not from lying), and all you want is a bottle of lotion and three minutes alone.
I hardly have to explain this to you, who understand that we fantasize about things that don’t exist… but it isn’t that the octobass is essentially hot. It’s that it becomes the trigger for an explosion of size comparisons that have already taken place in my mind, when I have been alone with the lotion. So many times I have pictured my shrunken man to be a musician, a little piano man with a toy piano in the dollhouse; and it doesn’t fall far to imagine a much larger man (but still shrunken) trying to pluck a few notes from a cello or violin fitted with an end pin.
I can close my eyes and see him standing there, in my living room, and I can see on his face a shade of memory, of when he used to be much taller, a man my size. He could sit in front of a piano then, before I shrank him and made everything in his life so much like mountain climbing. I always interrupt his sweet serenades when he least expects it, when he’s the most distracted by the effort of making music with an instrument much longer than it used to be. I don’t mean to be rude or disrespectful to my little one; I just like the colors he turns. His tinge of indignation always turns a better red when I start plucking him.