Michael Spring

Naked

Personal Aesthetic statement:

The hippies were right. 'What a long, strange trip it's been,' to quote the Grateful Dead. A lot of the time, we seem to have missed the opportunity for innocence in our writing, making it more of a puzzle than it needs to be. The freshness of something like Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," or the stories of Donald Barthelme is liberating somehow, and even if I don't want to copy the form of either, there is something there that helps us see more closely into the mystery of life. That freshness of view is the distant goal.

We have not discovered our names, though we are thrilled with confidence.

Some of our number are writing a book. We write on our skin. Our story can be read when we stand or lie together, naked.

Ours is a story of accidents and hope, like all stories.

The circumstances in which our book must be read, however, introduce uncertainties. Viewers stand transfixed, inspecting minutely the chapters inscribed on the more comely of our number. Our burgeoning youthfulness is obvious.

We suspect that some readers are not looking at the words at all. Some bring with them opera glasses and telescopes. A visitor spent four hours salivating over a metaphor which circled a nipple, a blue vein gently twitching beneath.

The integrity of our text is sometimes compromised by couples who will not lie still as the writing is done, and instead make love, often passionately.

In these circumstances, new chapters appear without warning. Others disappear owing to sweat, friction and jealousy.

The room where we sleep is cool, but this has only inspired the chapters to snuggle closer, further endangering what little remains of the modesty of those concerned.

We persevere, despite all embarrassments, because we know that the book is bigger than us all.

We allow our text to be examined by those with the greatest wisdom and knowledge in our wide country. We know we cannot fail to reveal comprehensive truths.

Suspicion though, is driving us apart. The integrity of our narrative has been endangered, though we had agreed a careful process to augment our work.

It becomes evident that some of our number—inspired by the strength of their feelings—have been producing new plots which spin off down limbs, roll into crevices or wind their way along single hairs. These plots introduce new characters and new magic.

Gods become incarnate on a well-developed upper thigh. A lonely madness appears, an itch between two fingers. A miracle takes place by a toenail. The path of a shallow artery describes a tale of passion and revenge.

Our book seems to be breathing. It lives, and while it lives, do we?

A few are whispering in a corner. They say our book is important. It should, they say, be housed in a strong white tower, under lock and key, accessible only for study by the old and the wise.

Others are concerned that it is now beyond comprehension. It is too substantial, too intricate and reveals too much of our brittle lives, even though more has been erased than remains.

Thinking of these things, I stride to the top of a hill where the wind throws rain in my face. This is my name. I leave the book to others.

Michael Spring works as a manager in a small marketing and design company. He loves horse racing, books and his family, but perhaps not in that order. Brittle Star, Fieldstone Review, Fifth Wednesday and Radio Ulster are among those who have published and broadcast his work, He lives in London.

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