The doctor said this was a first: no one had requested their own colonoscopy footage before. I said this was a request from the deepest corners of my artistic soul, like a love letter straight from my heart. Seemingly tired of talking to me, he emailed a video of the procedure over.
Over buckets of coffee, smoking like a chimney, I watch the footage caught by the colonoscope burrowing inside me, exploring my canals. I slowly fade in music, which happens to sound a lot like Angelo Badalamenti. I begin to weep.
My ulcers: once so banal. Now striking. Beautiful. It speaks to the haunted rot beneath America. Behold, a polyp hiding in the pink corners of my smooth, shining tissue. That polyp is named Fred. And Fred is the pure representation of all that is evil. No further explanation. My film is titled ‘Inland Empire’ for the inland means within my colon and the empire is me.
I sit my family down to show them my latest video masterpiece, serving cherry pie. They immediately recoil and leave the room. Typical: normies never understand great art. Are Hallmark films prodding their subconscious? I think not.
For feedback, my sister mentions liking the score, at which I begin crying and gritting my teeth. She certainly recognizes her own trauma in my work. Mother calls the film deeply disturbing, which I only hear as Lynchian: a compliment from the womb master. Father says it felt like a nightmare. I say to him, “Yes, daddy. Exactly!”
I begin showing my film publicly, projected on diners and vape store walls, blasting that stirring synth score. Apparently colonoscopy footage counts as indecent exposure. I tell the police captain, “You wouldn’t get it. You’ve never been to Cannes. You’ve never held a fire in your heart. Silencio.” I am punched in the eye. It feels like a kiss.
Once released, I practice transcendental meditation. New revelations from my film bubble up to the surface. My internal hemorrhoid is now named Judy. And she is in trouble. I decide to add grainy low-grade VFX and doo-wop ‘50s needle drops.
Desperate for a follow-up, I inquire about exploring my stomach, or a gastroscopy, to pair the looped footage of my digestive system with industrial metallic droning. ‘Esophagushead’ will be released this summer in black and white, playing only at midnight, with a runtime of five hours.