It is scary , alarming, bloodcurdling, chilling, creepy, hair-raising surreal reality. She is in dead grey. She is sitting down at the desk with her head and body resting on the top of the desk. She looks like she is sleeping. It does look a little eerie like she might be dead or something, just because she is all slumped over the top of the desk like that. But then the lights and colors come on. They are really vibrant, flashing, and psychoactive. It is like all of a sudden we are at a stage show with disco tech music. It is a large production and she is the only star. She, and her desk. She is dancing in her chair, on her chair, and around her chair. She sits on the desk, dances on the desk, and dances around the desk. She takes off her clothes and puts them back on, and takes them off again. But no one really cares, to them she is always naked, clothed or not clothed. It is just a state of her being really. Just like she is always at or with her desk whether she wants to be or not. Where she is, her desk is, and where her desk is, she is. It is just a fact of her surreal reality that is inescapable. And what a desk to be trapped with and attached to forever. It is no high tech state of the art brand new stylishly modernistic desk. Oh no, it is a old knobby pine desk that is easily dented and has been doodled on throughout the years. It has a lot of pine knots and some parts are not even real, but just cheap press board and Elmer’s glue. So what makes it so interesting to look at? Probably the fascination factor that we can, and no one can stop us, especially her. The presentation or production of this material is something she knows she has no choice about. No matter how we look at it, that damned desk is always in her picture. They make everything she does into pornography. And she knows this, that is why the circles are so deep and battleship dark under her eyes, because she doesn’t ever really sleep very well at that desk, but it is where she is stuck. Her nightmare of existence. That is why she makes such a show of dancing to and fro atop her cheap old knotty pine desk, because she is mad-dog bitter. Her eyes are all ablaze from the trauma of the show, and the heavy dusky smoke that hangs in the air. But now the heavy dusky smoke has subsided and the bright, vibrant, flashing, psychoactive, neon, and multi-colored disco lights have been replaced with the bright lights of last call. She realizes that she is in a red light district bar. An extremely seedy bar. She is always in a seedy bar, there is no escape. They only thing she can do to make the seediness go away is dance the best most unbelievable and amazing high-class dance that a girl ever had to dance, and she does, but now she is tired, dog dead tired, and she needs to rest again. An ever so heavily weighted gravity pulls her toward her eternal mate and the hope of dreams to escape her surreal reality. It is time to go back to sleep. Everyone has left. The party is over for now. She is tired from all the exertion, she drank too much and should never have danced that much, especially with no clothes on. She wants to throw up. She is exhausted. She slumps over the desk again, resting her head on top. The lights go out and it is dark again. Once again there is no color. It is scary. She is in dead grey. Maybe there will be another show on another day in the future. Maybe, that is all. Fin.
JANE Á PARIS
Copyright ©2008 JANE Á PARIS
Just another day at work…in political hell.