At the top of the hill, The Inflatable Man stands proud. (A mother and her two small children are picnicking below) Over inflated, the wind blows and knocks him to the ground. Left arm punctures, as he begins to roll down. The empty arm wraps around his eyes and mouth. As he rolls down faster and faster
he cannot see, he cannot call out.
Along with the flapping of the volume-denied,
autonomous, rebellious, mutinous arm, it sounds like the drum solo near the end of the first side.
LIVE/EVIL
Cutting and scraping of silverware against the ceramic plate.
Hollow tapping of the beer can being lifted and set down.
Breathing and mouth sounds.
Alone. Muted
television on in the dark of night.
Eating re-heated pizza with a fork and knife at the coffee table turned toward the light. There is no story to be told.
No life-or-death circumstances. No impending doom below.
No. That is to say, “He previsioned all of this.”
