waiting...

I 'm such a whore .

I'm in this for the money. My soul leaves my body, this is all happening to someone else. I look into the dim lights, the dull roar of crowd noise swells, and a quiet death overcomes any sense of reality. Pain is far away, my feet don't hurt, my back isn't sore and I no longer waste my life emptying ashtrays and leaning into other peoples conversations to ask if they'd like more wine.

Sometimes it's a movie. Here's a slow tracking shot of glowing candles and holiday diners who wear appropriate and inobtrusive wardrobes, gazing attentively at one another and not at me, the camera. A subtextual warmth radiates from each table, eyes sparkle with light, sound is a cooing mantra of chimes and chant that lulls us into womblike calm. I move seamlessly without jarring among them, on a path out of the kitchen across the plains of fertile tables and grazing lovers out onto the moonlit veranda where the night sounds mingle with the hum of traffic. It's all just a beautiful dream, full of cappucino foam, signifying nothing.

Avoiding the penetrating gaze of customers who want something, I skulk like a fleeing shoplifter into the kitchen to hide. The florescent lights flicker imperceptibly while stainless steel dulls. How different these worlds, the dining room and the kitchen. No wonder the traveller between them experiences ambivilence and doubt. These two worlds must never collide. They, the public, could not bear the clash of culture behind the swinging doors. To visit the factory of their dinner would crush the facade; best not to meet the artist, but to just enjoy the painting.