Go on, shorty. Try to play that giant instrument!

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.

4 thoughts on “Octobass

Add yours

  1. Un pequeño músico… nunca se me hubiese ocurrido pensarlo. Supongo que porque no me preocupa el encogido, si no que la que lo encoge.
    Acaba de cruzar por mi mente la imagen de un hombre encogido haciendo las veces de despertador para la que hizo de su vida difícil. Con un mini-intrumento ( que, al funcionar, hace notar que fue uno de tamaño normal en alguna ocasión) se empeñaría en hacer que “su montaña” se levantase. Tocando música clásica, o popo, rock, o cualquiera sea el gusto de a)El o b)Ella.
    En todo caso, bonito collage. Si lo hiciste tú, has sabido manejar bien las sombras. Aunque… los pies del hombre… ¿No están apoyados en el suelo?. Pareciera que volase.


  2. When I saw the title, I ~knew~ what this was about (being not only a musician but a bassist as well) & couldn’t navigate to the page fast enough.

    OutSTANDing, as ever!

    Gotta go get my shrink on…



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: