God of the Game (Dreamstate) (11 page)

   “What’s bothering you?”

   “You tell me. That’s why I came to see you in the first place.”

   “If nothing’s bothering you, why come find me?”

   “Something’s bothering me, but I don’t know what. If I did, I won’t be here.”

   “Fine. And now if you seek, you shall find.”

   “Huh? I thought you were going to tell me the answer.”

   “
I did. The answer is in you. The kingdom of god is in you.”

    Somehow, dialogues with gods always end up like this. They are all-knowing, omniscient, but you leave their presence somewhat more confused than before. I, at times, wonder if he actually knows what he’s talking about. Is he crapping with me? Is god in limbo? He knows nuts? And rightly so; for perpetual continuum is too elongated, and without end, for any single deity to comprehend in its entirety.

    For one, I was not even aware that life was disconcerting me. Yah
, I have occasional bouts of anxiety over Sha-Rronne, and I crave my Earthlife every once in a while, but I am enjoying my adventures too much in eternity to notice that I’m troubled.

    Sha-Rronne was made by me? And because of this Jai-I
recommended psychiatric help and introduced his father? Perplexing. Why fix something that’s not broke?

    Nonetheless, I am curious about Sha-Rronne. As I said, there is something about her, somet
hing of which I can’t place my finger exactly. She is different from the rest, I admit. I love and I have sex, I’ve shared intimacies in Dreamstate that are mind boggling, shared worlds (dimensional portals with its own laws of physics), not by the marriage of sperm and ovum, but mere ejaculation, the climax, the union of blood-rush and electrical impulses conceptualizing a seed in the spirit, transporting us there in the calm, serene post-conjugation of a dream; where I’d lived on with my many lovers in encrypted universes, producing a family, the first in the line of kings, origin of a species; civilizations spurred and spawned from a one-night-stand. 

    There is a quote in my book of Earthly success which defines the dilemma I’m in:

   ‘
In heaven, we are idiots, blissful idiots. And the sacrifice made to attain such perfection is my fragile human state. Paradise is a place where I can’t sob when I see a touching movie, or experience brokenness in a haunting tune; I cannot mourn when a loved one dies, because a loved one never dies, and that seriously undermines my love for that guy. For it is in pain that we can love, otherwise only hedonistic pleasures of unsurpassed libidinous rights reign in the light
.

    I cannot decide.
’

    And rightly so this surmises my state. I am too happy. Everything’s so damn fine.
Bliss till bored. Even truer, ‘
I cannot decide
;’ deep, meaningful, progressive human pain which brings significance to life, or self-indulging divine pleasures which numb the skull??? 

    Idiot!

    Too much of a good thing makes us sick. Try eating creamy cakes every day, or grade-A steaks. You’ll be up to here in sumptuousness, perpetually wanting to throw up, drowning in fat oil. We need to come down to basics occasionally. Plain rice. This truth is not only applicable in mortal lands. Ironically, it rings louder in heaven. It works like an undercurrent, like a sinister plot hatched in the bowels of a portentous city, shrouded from its complacent citizens till it’s far too late on the eve of calamity, reaching out with its far-flung claws to slowly paw us, tightening its grip on the soul. We don’t even feel it, especially with all that hedonism and libido running wild and naked in paradise. Like me, I don’t realize I’m ill. I don’t feel ill, yet apparently I am. And now that I know I am…I feel!

    This sucks.       

   “Well
, apparently I created someone…”

   “Sha-Rronne,” Jahr annou
nced coldly, hammering mid-sentence, concluding my words. He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything…well not everything, but almost.

   “Why do you think I did?”

   “Let me tell you a story,” he expounded, stroking his immaculate goatee, “There was once a brother and a sister that could never get along. One liked chocolate, the other liked vanilla. One played with dolls, the other played with guns. They fought and they quarrelled all night and day till mother got pissed. Well, I mean she can’t piss technically, `cause she’s a woman, she can only pee*, but anyway, that’s another tale,” Jahr mumbled to himself. “So where was I? O yes, mother got pissed. Angry. And she forced her son to dress like a girl and play dollhouse with his sister. Similarly, the daughter was made to indulge combat pretence. Lo and behold, they both found enjoyment in the other’s games and toys. So, boy now cross-dressers conveniently while girl romps about in camouflage gear.”

    I couldn’t relate the relevance of that story to my predicament. “Err…what are you trying to say?”

   “Playing with girl-toys is cool; playing with boy-toys is also cool. However, playing with both boy and girl toys is just as cool. You get me?”

   “No…”

   “Ok, ok, let’s use another analogy. You like chocolate ice cream?”

   “No, not really. But can eat
, lah.” I reverted to Malaysian slang from days foregone. A clumsy habit.

   “O shit, yer fucking picky,” he cursed. “Ok, let me see…” Jahr rolled his eyelids and said, “You like rum & raisins?”

   “Yah,” I responded, a bit annoyed he remotely picked my brain, as I could sense the tingle in my head akin to apple squeezed to juice.

   “You like macadamia ice cream?”       

    I nodded. He got it right on both counts. Cheat.

   “Do you like macadamia with rum & raisins?
”

    Cheat again.

   “Bingo!”

   “Wha…?”

   “That’s the answer.”

   “What? Rum & raisins? Macadamia ice cream?”

   “Yes, separately, but also together,” he prided.

   “I’m sorry your eminence, but I still don’t get you,” I said, trying not to be sarcastic.

   “Life, regardless temporary or immortal, must be enjoyed on all counts. Embrace all that it gives you, good and bad, light and evil. Enjoy your rum & raisins and your macadamia ice cream separately; but fuse them and a new taste is experienced.

   “Joy is good, but so is depression. From each you can take back new meanings that will deepen and enrich your life. So go ahead, embrace your past, explore Sha-Rronne. You will not regret it.” And with that he ascended to the heavens while I gaped on
, till an angelic lady in a flowing and intricate evening gown appeared and shot me a flying kiss. She also disappeared in a cloud of mist, but not before I recognized she was the mother (
who could pee but not piss*
) of the boy who was a girl and the girl who was a man.

* Penises piss; pussies pee

23

Music Videos

    I was at home. The pr
oblem with prophecies is that they make you lazy. They make you procrastinate. You bask in the aura of the word that precedes peace and vision, and you think, “Heh, I feel good, I have direction…let’s chill,” and before you’re aware, this ‘rest’ yer having is getting way too long. And by now, it’s hard to get off your bum. Even impossible. Which reminds me again the fucked up man I was. Always running away, a coward. Problems with girlfriends and parents and upbringing and religion. Problems with myself, my insecurities, my fears, my lack of confidence. I don’t think I really got away from it. I never escaped, not even now.

    Life was a roller
coaster going up and down. Worse, it loops round and round. I never found the freedom I so desired, I just tumbled in the mire, slopping from one quandary to another. A used up life with little glimmers of optimism that never materialized. Just temptations taunting me, but they never did deliver. Hope is a big letdown.

    Perhaps eternity would give me a second chance. To a certain degree
, it has. It has been swell, especially with all that mindless, violent and horny games I’d been playing. But now comes the crunch, the profundity of which my soul craves. No wonder it has been creating Sha-Rronne behind my back, beckoning me, calling me to inspire to something greater, fuller, something that can stand the test of time, solid and concrete. Not merely games – here today gone tomorrow. (
But of course nothing really goes away in Dreamstate
.)

    But you know what I mean. Don’t you? Something with more substance, less superficial. Love. But we’re talking Agape
, not just Eros. The opulence of the spirit rather than bimbos on the covers of magazines. Fake airheads further perfected by Photoshop, hyped up with nothing underneath.

    That’s what my everlasting existence has been like. A grand ballroom of touch-ups, makeovers, Botox, liposuction, silicone and collagen. But peel beneath and it’s hollow. This
is not to say that eternity is shallow, but instead, I’d chosen the superfluous alone for entertainment. Naturally, there comes a time (after how long an infinity, god knows) when my being aches for some depth. A human example I can provide is exercise. Not having enough of it, and one day your body will respond. Yer not sure initially that something is wrong, you’ve ignored the warning signs for too long…but your system will let you know…eventually.

    I’m lucky to be forewarned. By Jai-I and his father. And I ought to do something about it. But I don’t (as usual). Not yet at least, since I’m only ankle-deep in waters of infestation. Plenty of aeons to go before it becomes a negative vibe.

    Instead, I put on the latest by Daft Punk and prepare for the invasion of funky beats to electronically permeate my soul. My home is clean and white like an operation theatre. Everything is disinfected and sterile. I prefer it this way. It’s cold and machine-like. Inhuman; makes me feel I can always return to a dream…a coma, a haven from the madness of endless creation. Marilyn Manson’s Mechanical Animals influenced the décor.

   A 3-60-degrees screen environed the entire living room. Images beamed from satellites
everywhere
, whence the pics had life and will of their own, grafting isolated tragedies, random bouts of queerness and the occasional happiness reported on news, experiences of strangers separated by distant seas, into a consolidated movement, an impromptu movie teasing reality. Fate at my fingertips on remote, editing lives as I wish, adding and deleting memories of solitary individuals; it was somewhat a psychological thriller set on Judgement Day. Daft Punk rocks. I was quite a dancer on Earth (
she
inspired
me), and I’d translated this gift to perpetuity.

    I stood still. Breathing. Meditating like a
Samurai before he picks up his Katana - the most elegant weapon, the deadliest close range strike. The video shows a bamboo forest, and I stand at the centre of a clearing inside. The camera pans to my feet. They grip the dusty ground. And my hands tighten round the sword. I seize the hilt and withdraw the blade from its dragon-emerald encrusted sheath. The cold, cold steel mirrors a warrior’s face – hair sleeked in ponytail, a thin beard, and eyes ready to frighten the devil.

    Music p
lays as soundtrack. Synthetic guitars, looping rhythms and female vocals battling acoustic bass lines. Sound waves swipe and fight in a forest of lush audio frequencies. The song reaches an atmospheric silence, a prevailing suspense where the listener anticipates a sudden rush, a mighty gush. I hear my breaths; I see it. Steam blows out of my nostrils like a dragon, like pipes bursting in the underground tunnels of large cities, manholes blown off.

    And here it comes! A crash
; followed by break-beats and rocking riffs, taking the tune to a new high. One of maniacal intensity. I shout, and at that moment, enemies jump from trees. I swing the Katana with accurate frenzy, cutting and slicing as if bones were paper; ligaments, jelly. Tendons tore, joints split. They died as trained soldiers. Silent. Accepting their fate. I am a superior warrior; they are aware of this. They were sent to meet death by their master. And they obeyed.                        

    The tempo and the massacre were as one. With each accented beat came a flying limb, an off-time counter attack meant heads rolled. The camera pic
king up all these and transferring direct to the sharp impressions on flat-screen. Like anime – single-frame body-part hurtling through midair, only the backdrop changes in rapid motions. Blood splatter.                        

    Song ends. Gore, entrails, disembowelment. A haunting hush, all my foes dead. I sheath the sword. A soft click, the lens cut to the locking of the revered blade in its casing. A close up shot. Then wide-angled panorama. Artistry from the director, the kind Asian ones are fond to manipulate. Creaking, cracking, and the bamboo forest comes crashing down with a theatrical bang amidst the butchery
, while our hero remains cool in his slanting pose – head bowed, eyes slitting sharp. A vicious glow. An animalistic focus.

    Track 2. Starts with Oriental sounding keys, only the black notes
of a digital piano. A shadow darts in the dark. Time to face the boss. Distorted voice-samples mesh with a broken melody. The programmed drumbeat kicks in after four bars. They sound flat and muffled on purpose. A figure in demon-armour positions arrogantly. A blatant parade. Unnecessary. He’s gonna die without mercy, without honour, and without dignity. By my hand. By the sharpened end of my royal Katana.