Bucolic.

But then she said it, she used it and made me think the word was perfect, just like her. Is she perfect or is she terribly flawed. There's no in-between. Am I perfect?

The woman falls face first, diagonally across the bed.

On the streetcar I try to see into as many apartment windows as possible. Just looking into the windows makes me feel like I'm getting my moneys worth out of the transit commission. It's not getting to where I'm going that's important, it's staying where I am while I move forward, projecting myself laterally while we move linearly.

I'm into horizontal integration, (she begins to laugh, uncontrollably), vertical integration is where the bucks are.

The woman bolts up, music swells and a couple, a man and a woman, appear in the background, dancing the cha-cha-cha.

I notice someone I have been attracted to intensely and not so intensely for the past four years. Every three months or so we run into each other and we uncontrollably slip into this flirtatious speech. Where does it come from this "hi" in a tone that slides off the tongue and drips down the front of the body, staining the clothes in a pinkish blush. The corners of the eyes contract and tweak, the corners of the mouth stretch upward and every spoken word threatens to turn into a giggle.

He is dancing with the girlfriend I have heard about but never seen. Now I think that there is a show that is being put on for my eyes only. I don't believe that there can be sexual energy like what I'm producing that doesn't get noticed by the object of desire.

The woman contemplates this for a moment and tries to cast a spell through the camera, playing with her notion of attractiveness she stares at an assumed audience.

Finally you are performing for me. I am after all standing by the window, there is a moon, and its casting a backlight on the surface of my chestnut coloured hair.

After a length of time this real and this imaginary man comes over to me as I knew he would.

The woman is now standing behind the man and the woman who are seated. She addresses the man who is engaged with his companion. The couple ignores her.

He says, "They have just published an erotic manuscript of Baudrillard."

Quick on my feet, a subject I love, I say, "I'm not sure of the validity of using Baudelaire as a tool for..."

"Wrong century." He says.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, why do I have to be so stupid? Why wasn't I listening. We arrange to meet, and as soon as we do, all desire for this person evaporates, forever.

As the woman snaps her fingers the couple disappear, leaving her alone in the room. She begins to hop, sentence by sentence from the two chairs previously occupied by the couple.

How many times have you thought that before? How many times have you stewed in your own desiring juices? How many times have you been obsessed with someone who doesn't know that you are alive?

There's a comfort that comes from being in love with someone you don't know. You get to talk to yourself, as if you were you're lover, in the most romantically philosophical way. You describe the world as you see it and its so clever and astute. Its much more interesting to talk in your mind to someone other than yourself. That's why I develop crushes on people, just so I have someone to talk to when I'm alone. The conversation always goes the way that I want it to, even their imaginary response puts a curve in the conversation that develops me as the perfect partner to your thoughts. And that laughter that rings in your head when you say something that is particularly smart and quick, floods through your body and reassures you that you are not insane.

The woman stands up and walks over, past the t.v., in front of the mirror. The L.E.D. board flashes behind her.

My orthodontist, Dr. Diva, is a very neutral you know. He describes my jaw in relationship to all other jaws. (Nod head, sigh, shake head)

"Its not cancer." (Shock, oh, nod head)

Who thought it was cancer?

Dr. Diva, it hurts to eat, to talk, yawn.

He asks me if I smoke, drink? Then I get that look like naturally I'm the cause of my own troubles, as if I didn't know that already, as if we need someone to tell us what the cause of our own troubles are.

So few people tolerate any form of weakness now. It is such an embarrassment to have a problem. So he tells me to wear this and it will get rid of all my troubles.

I should explain that I suffer form lockjaw. TMJ. This is another illness that is metaphor. It all sounds a bit hysterical to me but I'd rather wear some cute mouth gear than go to see an analyst. This is how I am suppose to achieve transcendence.

Dr. Diva, is the problem structural or is it caused by emotional stress from living in an artificial environment where the value of life is subsumed by the daily struggle of trying to keep body and soul intact in a world that values achievement and things over good deeds, happiness and peace of mind?

(You think you hear him) He says that my problem is definitely a structural problem.

Well then you are saying that its natural as opposed to structural?

This time he says, "Well yes, but its aesthetic as well, when I'm finished with you, you are going to have a prettier smile."

I'm talking to this artist at a party. He's saying:

The scene shifts to the man, a wash of yellow, calmly ranting. He stands beside his ever silent girlfriend who continually tries to insert herself into the conversation.

YELLOW MAN:

"I believe that yellow creates a field that permits the mind to engage with memory, flooding the temporal reality of the moment with obscure details from the viewers past. I provide a linkage, (he interlocks his hands to make his point), through symbols, and I feel comfortable using the term symbol as opposed to sign which is a linguistic term not completely relevant to the nature and realities of visual media, yes I provide the linkage through symbols that are left as remnants of an accountability to the society as a whole in terms of my participation as a cultural producer who refuses to be submissive to the dominant oppressive hegemonic infra structure, in as much as and in relationship to the reigning ideology and flagrant desires of the bourgeoisie.

(he breathes)

Yellow, yes yellow, they have ruined it and I will make history by gaining back the respect for yellow that yellow deserves. They have twisted and mutilated it into a signifier, and I can use the word signifier here because it is completely appropriate within this context. They have twisted and mutilated it into a signifier of cowardice, a signifier of the weak and the marginalized, my god, they have used it to vent their racism, they have made it inferior to blue and red. I will restore yellow's honour and power as a colour capable of inducing intense mnemonical states of being. Yellow has subversive potential, it affirms the viewer's subjectivity through subliminal triggers activating channels of memory that have lain dormant for years. It is a powerful colour, a very, very powerful colour."

The woman walks into the scene and past the couple and slowly sits down.

I'm thinking, did I leave the lights on to the car. (knock on the head) No one is home, where are my keys, where are my keys, where are my keys.

He looks at me while drawing a breath, I mean he really looks at me, looks at my face, looks into my eyes and he says, "If we met for coffee would you have anything to say?"

Marketplace, simulacra, do you think that dogs think about their mothers?

The floor of the hotel room is revealed to be littered with metal debris. As the woman's feet walk through the frame the metal debris sticks to the magnetic soles of her shoes. She becomes stuck to the floor, tangled in the metal chains that encirlce her feet.

Where are my keys? Where are my KEYS?

I can't find my keys, cause I can't find my bag, I can't find my bag because I live in a state of entropic invasion. Things are always falling apart. It gets all messed up, you clean it up, you go out, you come back, it gets all messed up, you clean it up, you go out, you come back, it gets all messed up, you clean it up, you go out, you come back its still messy, something breaks, you fix it, it breaks again, you fix it again. You find your keys, always in the last place you look.

The woman sits down on the bed.

We are going to the airport. I hop in a cab, notice the no smoking sign and drop my cigarette butt to the ground as I slam the door. I imagine the cigarette butt burning on the sidewalk as the cab pulls away, a trail of wispy smoke dances on a gentle breeze, this image cuts in like an edit in a bad rock video. I imagine the butt as it remains stationary and I, in the cab pull away from my house, my life, the mess, and project myself into the unknown. We revel in thoughts of anticipation.

But in a minute I have more pressing things to worry about. Like the driving ability of this person that I have never met before. Just because he's licensed doesn't mean he won't kill me. Just because he's sitting behind the wheel of a car doesn't mean he knows how to drive.

I suddenly and seriously doubt that we are going to make it to the airport. He's tailgating within a five foot clearance of the car in front and we are traveling at 120 km an hour. I'm really scared but I remain silent. I think that if you think that you are going to die that it can't possibly happen because death by accident can only come by complete surprise. But the driver, he's prying, he wants to know where I'm going, he's tired of always taking people to the airport, he wants to go away too. If only he could go somewhere, his life would be so much better. He's looking at me in the rear-view mirror for entire sentences, do death could take him by surprise and I could be left injured and...

We make it, confirming my belief in how to avoid death by accident. Just think that it is going to happen all the time and it won't. I'm sure that's true.

The woman finds a bible in the drawer beside the bed.

I'm flying American to Salt Lake City. I'm sitting alone in my motel room. I find the bible. I open it up and to my surprise I find an American $10 bill. Is this some sort of miracle. It must mean something. I start to read the bible and I get all the way to the begets.

Abraham beget Isaac and Isaac beget Jacob and Jacob beget Judas and Judas beget Phares and Phares beget Esrom and Esrom beget Aram and Aram beget Aminadab and Aminadab beget Nasson beget Salmon and Salmon beget Booz of Rachab and Booz beget Obed and Obed beget Jesse and Jesse beget David the King and David the King beget Solomon....

Suddenly the woman stares directly into the camera, her face in extreme close-up.

I think where the heck are all the women while all this begetting is going on? I don't think it can be as simple as they say it is in the bible.

The room widens and the couple are back. This time the man sits in the chair, the girlfriend begins a seductive slow slow strip tease. The narrator remains seated on the bed.

I remember the $10 sitting beside me like a gift so over to the motel bar I go which happens to offer, as entertainment, table dancing and stripping. I can't pretend I don't feel anxious going into a place like this alone. Let's face it, you donÕt often see a non-working girl in a strip joint by herself. But Giddeon's had presented me with a moral challenge.

Okay I'm nervous. The room is filled with men. As if I need to tell you that, as if you don't know that already. Only men except for the dancers and the waitresses. I find an obscure corner from which I can observe.

The waitress comes over. Her manner is professional. I order a vodka and orange juice. She informs me that I must buy the vodka from a truck in the parking lot because this establishment is not licensed. That's really weird. No way, I think to myself, there is absolutely no way that I am going to walk through this bar and go out to the back lot. I order an orange. I try to appear calm.

No need to worry, no one is paying the slightest attention to me. All eyes are glued to the various naked bodies that are on wide open display. The spectacle overwhelms me and all traces of self-consciousness are wiped out. I feel paralyzed by sensations I have never felt so strong before.

I look at the women and I look at their bodies and they are so beautiful in this soft smoky light. Not bucolic like paintings but soft and as perfect as velvet, like airbrushed photographs. This is the surface and I trace the map. But I don't know how I got here. And I'm afraid but I don't know why.

I look at the customers. I can't see myself. In so much need, their mouths are slightly open like little babies and there is a light that is shining from their eyes that looks something akin to what the physical manifestation of love might look like. Sometimes the men's tongues flick out from behind their teeth licking at the women's naked flesh. You might think they were hungry, starving even.

I feel sick. I feel repulsed. I feel excited. Excited because I am experiencing something that is completely on the edge. That is in the process of defining the limits, how far is too far. Repulsed because with this contract the women stand to loose. It ceases to have any meaning outside of degradation once it goes to far.

It has the appearance of being a straight forward transaction. Supply and demand. You pay money which I need and I'll show you something private, a secret, the beginning and the end.

My objectivity makes my jaw ache.

One woman is sitting on a table, in front of a man, her knees are bent, and when she opens her legs, the man sitting one foot away stares, then he closes his eyes and he weeps. Its true, he weeps.

They say that you cry when you feel helpless and you laugh when you feel shocked.

She smiles, she reaches out, strokes his hair, then slowly closes her legs. The song is over. She removes her body from the table and she moves her body away. Maybe its me who moves my body away.

The girlfriend is dressing.

THE WOMAN:

voice over

There are contradicting signals that are twisting my mouth into pain and silence. The image of a chestnut coloured horse bucking as they try to put the bit into the mouth, the bit attached to the reins. This image cuts in like an edit in a feminine hygiene ad. Its a cliché, remember we like clichés. Like the man said, pleasure is complex, pain is simple. I would like to say the opposite but it hurts to eat, talk, yawn.

And how come I feel like wrapping my mind with the image of my body but I can't. Or wrapping myself in a sea of images of offerings of here this is for you to look at, for you to rest on and look at for as long as the song can last for however long it takes for the song to be over.

Who can resist the temptation of beauty and how far does it go before it becomes exploited, obscene and possessive.

The woman is in the bathroom, rearranging soap.

I'm back, I spent all my money and I'm going home. I can't find my keys.

Where are my keys? I know people take this as an indication that I am a disorganized person. Ha I say, Ha, Ha.

I try to be systematic, I try to be ritualistic, I try to do the same thing everyday, I try to develop a pattern of dealing with everything so that I can be efficient and indifferent but nothing around me ever stays the same I am always having to react to things that I didn't anticipate.

As the woman reaches for the towel, the towel rack falls off the wall. The woman now lies on the bed, her body wrapped in chains.

I know a woman who chains her keys to her body. Now that's efficient. I wish I could be like her, I just know that her life is perfect. I just know she knows exactly what she wants and goes after it. I just know she sleeps at night and wakes up rested, I just know she feels at home where ever she is and focuses in on what she finds of interest in her life. I just know she's never locked out. I just know she is perfect.

The room is empty of people.

THE WOMAN:

voice over

Come on, come here, come here, come on...

This is the key to my bike.

This is the key to my car.

This is the key to my locker.

This is the key to my Tuesday morning job.

This is the key to my Thursday evening job.

This is the key to my friend's house.

This is the key to my mother's house.

This is the key to my sister's house.

This is the key to my son's bike.

This is the key to my filing cabinet.

This is the key to the lock I lost.

This is the key to my heart.

This is the key to my house.

My house key, I'm not locked out.

The woman is back sitting on the bed. The camera creeps in on her.

I lied. I hope that doesn't wreck my credibility. I hope you still like me.

I lied about the therapist. I did go once. But the therapist... well....

I'm not going to go into all the details but essentially he laughed at me and found that what I said, well frankly he found it incredulous. He argued with me about three issues and said that he did not believe that what I described had really happened or was happening.

The camera bounces back to begin another creep forward.

Issue #1. Although he was impressed that I had memories going back to when I was six months old, he did not believe that I saw seven small men pass in front of my house, for two years, on a daily basis, morning and night, in a single file, carrying pick axes and shovels. And when I say they were small, I mean they were very small, very, very small. And these small men frightened me. Now that didn't seem unbelievable to me. But no, he didn't want to talk about the small men.

The camera bounces back to begin another creep forward.

Issue #2. I did not want to talk about my lover. I was emphatic about this point. (silence) I will not talk about my lover.

The camera bounces back to begin another creep forward.

Issue #3. I do not want to talk about my mother. Fair enough, what was your father like. He was wonderful, intelligent, handsome, charming, witty, absent, critical, indifferent, removed.

"Well." he says, "I want to talk about your mother."

No.

"I don't believe you say the seven dwarfs."

Fine. So I'm locked out. So who cares anyway.

THE END