The other night I helped my son carve a jack-o-lantern. He picked out the pumpkin at the store, drew the face on it, and then together we dug out all the seeds by hand. I told him all the seeds and stuff were the pumpkin's "brains" and I made all sorts of horror movie monster movie sounds each time I pulled some of it out.Everything was gong smoothly until right at the end, just as I was working to finish everything up, when I pushed too hard and felt the serrated edge of the knife dig into my fingertip. Nothing fatal, of course --
But when you cut yourself just right...I moved quickly into the bathroom, applying as much pressure as I could until I could get the wound under some running water. When I arrived, I took the pressure away so I could start the faucet.
There is something fascinating and yet horrifying about blood. Even as I type this there is a tightening along my spine as my body unconsciously remembers the sensation that accompanies that sort of bleeding.
It was like I couldn't look away, even though all I wanted was for it to stop.The cut was right on the surface, but the blood itself was deep, thick red - like it had come from somewhere deep inside me. It fell all across the blanche white of my porcelain sink, spattering like rain and then running like paint.
Have you ever cut yourself like that, where it's not deep but it bleeds like it is? Where your eyes lock in on it so much it's as if you can feel your pulse rushing through the breakage?
I'd run water over it to clean the cut, but every time I turned off the faucet on the sink the one on my index finger would start up again. It was a bizarre experience, one that probably lasted only a few minutes in reality, but existed second after second after second in my eyes.
How unsettling it was to know how fragile my senses felt,
even though my system was never in any real danger.
[Listening to: Killing Joke, "Sun Goes Down"]
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