127 Hours

So I REALLY want to see this movie.

But I am afraid I might puke on the person in front of me. I don't do so well with gnashing, bone crunching, deathly sounds.

So I decided I might be able to read his book.

I will eventually see the movie, but maybe when it's on netflix or redbox so I can MUTE.

I have been researching the book and here is an excerpt from when he begins to cut his arm off! INTENSE.

This is what made me decide I can't see the movie in theaters.

Miserable, I watch another empty hour pass by. I have nothing whatsoever to do. I have no life. Only in action does my life approximate anything more than existence. Without any other task or stimulus, I’m no longer living, no longer surviving. I’m just waiting.

I want to brush the collected dirt off my arm, away from the open wound. I take my knife and begin clearing particles from my trapped hand, using the dulled blade like a brush. Sweeping the grit off my thumb, I accidentally gouge myself and rip away a thin piece of decayed flesh. It peels back like a skin of boiled milk before I catch what is going on. I already knew my hand had to be decomposing.

Without circulation, it has been dying since I became entrapped. Whenever I considered amputation, it had always been under the premise that the hand was dead and would have to be amputated once I was freed. But I hadn’t known how fast the putrefaction had advanced since Saturday afternoon. Now I understand the increase in the interest of the indigenous insect population. They could already smell their next meal, their breeding ground, their larva’s new home.

Out of curiosity, I poke my thumb with the knife blade twice. On the second prodding, the blade punctures the epidermis as if it is dipping into a stick of room-temperature butter, and releases a telltale hissing. Escaping gases are not good; the rot has advanced more quickly than I had guessed. Though the smell is faint to my desensitised nose, it is abjectly unpleasant, the stench of a far-off carcass.

On the heels of the odour, a realisation hits my brain: whatever has started in my hand will shortly pass into my forearm, if it hasn’t already. I don’t know and furthermore don’t care if it’s gangrene or some other insidious attack, but I know it is poisoning my body. I lash out in fury, trying to yank my forearm straight out from the sandstone handcuff, never wanting more than I do now to simply rid myself of any connection to this decomposing appendage.



Don't you think that is sooo intense? I love the style of writing. Short and to the point. My kind of reading. I can't wait to read it. My dad started me on rock climbing when I was 6 or 7 and I have been a lot, though not in the last 5 years. Anthony and I wanted to get into it again, but we have NO time. And Marche really needs to get into shape before she tries to scale a mountain.

BTW.. does anybody know of any good Hiking Utah books? We want to explore Utah for our last summer.

Anyways, when I see the movie I will let you know how gory it was.