MASTURBATING INTO VISCERA

Sometimes amputation is necessary. Sometimes amputation is necessary. Sometimes amputation is necessary. Sometimes amputation is necessary. Sometimes—

the disease has left us all too far gone, the disease has spread too far into the hidden recesses of the body, alienating cells, dividing and conquering, feeding on living tissue. To eliminate the sickness one must give up a little flesh.

One of my fingers, the index one from my right hand, lay lifelessly on a saucer, on the side of the bathroom sink. I viewed the composition of it in varying angles, capturing in my vision a series of feasible still-lives and frozen moments. Wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it after I cut it off. Not too much blood yet. Still had my makeshift tourniquet on; I undid the rubber band I had wrapped over and over again behind the knuckle, where I had liberated my finger from with the chisel. Once the band was off, the red tip oozed a thick sluggish glob down into my open hand like lava rolling down a volcano side. Flexing the stump with the rest of my fingers, wriggling them in a wave pattern, I found the visual effect to be very disorienting and I became slightly nauseous watching where my missing digit should have been. Probably should be bandaged soon, I remembered thinking. At that point, I looked forward to experiencing the phantom limb syndrome, how people who lose a limb or some bodily appendage still feel various sensations like pain or itching in the parts where they no longer have parts. I tried to consciously will my missing finger to move, and as far as my mind was concerned the message was being relayed. My central nervous system assumed the digit was wiggling away, like normal. Except it wasn’t. It was dead there, lying in the saucer. Strange strange feeling.

After five minutes the first bandage I applied had completely soaked through. Probably should have left the rubber band on longer. Otherwise my only other concern at that moment was what to do with the finger. Mail it to someone a la Van Gogh? Perhaps a little too pretentious. Perhaps preserve it and turn it into a necklace charm of some sort, put it on a chain and show it off, do a little pantomime routine to shock people who don’t know me. Wondered if there were others out there who’ve done what I’ve done, felt the same curiosity to push their flesh past some imaginary point where you weren’t supposed to tread, where the body bordered on no longer being the sacred temple you were supposed to revere it as. Does a person extend beyond the limits of his body? What happens when the vessel shrinks, suffers a reduction, slowly evaporates, dwindles away under sharp knives or chalky pills? What if I decided not to stop here, and I wouldn’t stop hacking pieces and pieces away until all I resembled was a 3-D jigsaw puzzle, soaked with blood, where the parts never would interlock properly. I would end up being nothing but a steady hand holding an industrial-strength saw, mincing skin and sinew into new proportional amounts, forgetting confines. I know I’ve only cut off my finger, but there’s the potential there to modify that makes me queasy while it eats at my thoughts. I remember as a young child at a Cub Scouts meeting seeing a man missing the tip of his ring finger, just a rounded-off nub where there should have been more finger. I was fascinated by the man with the minor deformity, I’m sure he wasn’t even aware of me staring at it while he drummed the picnic table, his left hand missing a tap on the wood. I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment while I stared at my own hand.

Forgot to shut off the video-camera that I had recorded the event with, for posterity’s sake. I felt a record was necessary, not like I could grow another finger and have people doubt that I had really chopped it off (they'’ see the stump, right?) More Neosporin, a new cloth bandage secured with surgical tape. I decided to put my finger in a Ziploc baggie and stash it in the freezer so it wouldn’t go bad. Might end up eating it if no better idea pops up. The new bandage soaked through in just a few minutes. I’d like to avoid a trip to the emergency room if at all possible; they’d commit me if I ruminated on my philosophy of flesh liberation. I did feel a little light-headed. Made myself go lay down, with my hand over a bucket to catch any splatters.

FINALLY, A ZINE WORTH DYING FOR

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