Gesamtkunstwerk

yet, i wish i could do it forever.

imagine u're doing a presentation.

it looks like nobody's paying u genuine attention, so u ask a question - to try to engage your audience. it's futile, because as every fucker knows, it's only 1/83 of the time that anyone bothers to answer. u wait in 4 seconds of silence, because u think it's the appropriate length of time to waste. and meanwhile u can gather your thoughts and take deep breaths, because your heart is hammering against your lungs, making your voice come out all funny.

ok, time to go on, u think, and u do... when the tutor says, "i think someone's..." and u turn back, and wonder of wonders, a raised hand! u'll have to point at him, and he'll lower his hand and attempt an answer, for u to assess and comment, "well done" or "haha, no". u forget straightaway what u were gonna do next, and will never know. in a sudden blank, u go through the motions, as does he. u repeat his answer, write it on the board. and in the momentary daze, u even forget the basic "thank u".

thrown off balance.
and u literally asked for it.

it wouldn't be so bad if the sad fuck hero of this sad fuck scenario, wasn't yours truly. and when i thought i'd long figured out my love-hate relationship with presentations; when every damn presentation i've ever done in uni (and foundation, And school) was semi-impromptu; and when i thought i was a bloody veteran! when i knew there was nothing more i could learn!

no, no, no, no, No!
fuck! fuckfuckfuckFuck!
#%@$^&#%@$^%$)#@#%^$.
#$^@$^@$^$&^#@$!%#&^&%%$@#!#^%#@%&#$^*@#!@$%)*@)%&*@^@^!@^%#$%^$%^&^$*(*.
lessons for the day? (not that i've not repeated to myself these very same pointers for ~!@%#%E#$@#@ times)...

#1. speak slowly (duh.) - but this really translates to, take the time to think clearly and get your point across. clearly. if any part at all is not crystal, then the whole thing falls down. this also means, say what u want and mean to say, and never let your thumping chest tell u otherwise.

#2. be prepared - no, expect - questions (whether asked for or un-). u are talking, and that's a two-way thing - listening and registering are crucial here. and as i learnt today, never be caught too deep in your thoughts for miracles. if u ever are, refer to #1.

#3. if u have to RE-learn these, do it. and to quote bruce lee, knowing is not enough - Apply.

#4. new lesson: u are most vulnerable in the 'transitions' of your speech. that is, for instance, between intro and body, between body and example discourse, and especially lame-joke discourse, between body and outro. semi-impromptu is fine, so long as u're clear what's gonna happen next -

#5. because it's your show. be in control.

good luck.

...blip, says the computer.

he opens his eyes. it was a good sleep, a deep sleep. in light of the recent bouts of insomnia, this was as good a start to the day as any. is it mid morning? he scans the clock and reviews the day's work and gets out to find something to eat, all at once. just like he always did. but something is wrong. this isn't his room... and he feels too good to be true. but very hungry. i've been duped, i'm still dreaming, he lies back resignedly. the bright light teases him into thinking he'd probably died and arrived upstairs. but goddamn, was he hungry.

and: blip, blip, blip went the monitor.
*****
"...well let's say life and death and two sides of a gorge. ok, u know the river, the greek, styx? u were already on the boat, already beyond recall. u just never crossed over," explains the wife. "u expect i'd just accept that i've just slept away 10 years of my life?" he grates. looking at her was painful, just serving to remind him a decade had indeed, gone. he drifts in and out, and hears little about the lightning bolt that stroked him. "...u'll love the kids, they're 7 and 5 both," says his wife, but he seems not to hear.

people visit. sitting amidst flowers, he tries to realign the tatters of his unfinished business. and hears "incredible", "awesome", "fucking unbelievable" overhead. there were old colleagues from productions. he doesn't bother to put the names to their faces. from beside his ear: "hi daddy," says an attractive chick with red hair. what's this, they hired a stripper?

"10 years, and suddenly! whahahahh!" that fella was always too loud.
"well he was a bit of a late bloomer," comments another.
"and always one for good stunts." damn the bastards, was this a joke now?
"out of this world." - pah.

"dad?," a well-built youth approaches. he flinches, finding one of his deeper fears in-the-real, his son now a man of 25? 26. he tries to mask the pain, to be the stoic, indomitable, dignified figure he had always tried to model his son on. but where was the point now? a cute lil kiddo climbs onto his bed, remarkably like the father. he couldn't help but feel a surge of paternal pride.

"this is grandpa?"
"this. is. he," the filial son regards him proudly.
"his name's ..." he looks up at the daughter-in-law he never knew, but they've met. she has a frizz of red hair, which made her rather attractive.

the doctor intrudes politely and confides something to the wife. the patient strains to listen in. "it's funny, but it appears he came out of coma shortly after the feeding system's power was cut."

"are we all right?" asked a voice from right behind him. he snaps a grip on his nerves and turns, smiling calmly, if a bit forced. his gaze fell on... nothing. suddenly his legs were as before, numb at the knees, like the times he were forced to make a public speech at school, only this time there was no one to tell it to. a silence hovered, then a ghost whispered. help me, let me out, it seemed to be saying.

there was a bowl of fruits on the table, and there was an orange which looked plastic. nestled within, a beautiful wine bottle in deep green, in place of cork is a giant pen. let me out, help me, help. the bottle opener lies in the crook of a wooden catapult, made from the perfect forked branch. very marcel duchamp. a pipe even dangles on exhibit, on fishing line from the ceiling.

a clicking started, which caught his attention. a windchime of pencils hung on a beam. having just five shafts, it had infinite variations and they clacked a perfect soundtrack to the whispers. it was earthy and natural, and it seemed he would abandon life itself to listen to it. the whispers were a whine. "clack clock click. chicks dig the click. chicks, u dig? come cluck clack click."

he seemed to be seeing through the walls, seeing through a screen. then it might be that he was blacking out. things became things. the wood on the chairs seemed to be crawling with rot. the trophy on the wall was herne the hunter, the epitome of strength. "the young lambs are in my care, but u, u're not a lamb anymore," herne intones. he is annoyed at the patriarch. "i will be a tall stag yet, one day," he said determinedly. herne is stealing a puff and straightens, looking severe. the pipe pipes up, "i am not a pipe. i mean, this is not a pipe (hah, what am i saying?)"

let us out, help! the voices were urgent, pleading. this change in pitch annoyed him. the room's acoustics were perfect, and it was too loud, it interfered with the good, wooden chimes. in a selfish moment, he glanced around and cursed the offending voice under his breath. which was when he first saw the great poster on the wall.

the enlightened teacher, the deity! stared at him, benign. the pencils kept on melodiously, strong and sinful. caught in guilt between buddha and bottle, he stooped before the wall fidgeting. "come away, now," says jemini cricket, from the wall.

he started. gods, ghosts, pencils and duchamps vanished. and all that was left was the plastic orange. it thudded onto the floor and bled black ichor.

my friend has an imposing desk. the moment u step into his place u become aware of its presence. it dominates the room in a way so that i am reminded of those altars to kuanyin in my aunts' houses, those 'sun-toi's ("god's table", told u chinese was neat). it's more than furniture with attitude. the mac on the desk starts to regard u smugly with its impeccable glow. the huge sheafs of papers seem to say, "i'm busy, go away". u think it's rude. then u think u're getting carried away.

back to the present, i am listening to album: "blackmore's night", by ritchie blackmore. now if u didn't know ritchie blackmore, like i didn't, it'd be interesting to find out, and find out it is truly skill when u're able to stretch your creative spectrums. the one, superimpressive song here, which seduces your ears and leaves u craving for more is "possum goes to prague".

i wanna go to europe.

my neighbour is a weird one. today i saw more than usual, i caught a full-frontal as she pressed up to the window to pull up the blinds (and a nice derriere as she turned back.) this was at about 4-5pm, and a fucking hot afternoon it was, too. open windows seemed a good idea. after all, what was the point if u weren't proud of being naked? she lacked a perfect figure, but had the pride. it's times like these that u shift your thinking toward the positive - where otherwise u'd have no reaction u start going "...ooh, she has a woman's curves", "...not afraid of the fact", blablabla. in all of 4 seconds, in that confident, stark glory, sorry for the pun, her sexiness was abound. and life is beautiful.

but i've been at my desk for most of the hours since, and it's 9.40. i'd glimpsed her earlier - with a robe on - in the kitchen, and soon as her business was done she turned off the light. the living room is in darkness except for the tv... throwing light on the wall, and the only other light a small lamp in the kitchen.

-- and now that's gone too.

maybe she just likes the dark.