[1] You meet Johnny K, at the time you had set beforehand with him for such a meeting. He comes armed with a guitar and proceeds to guide you through a short survey of guitar playing styles- flamenco, rock, jazz, blues and so on. But before you can think of, much less frame, questions to ask him, he puts the guitar to one side and starts taking pictures, starting with your shoes, salt split on the café table, lights of passing traffic reflected on the picture window. Click, click, click. You make to tell him to stop doing that when you realize your voice box too makes these same meaningless sounds – click, click, click.

[2] Johnny K is talking. His lips move in jittery motions, as do his and your nerve endings. Just imagine what would happen if the signals fired by human nerves sounded like bullets being fired or grenades exploding? The goddamn noise would instantly make all of us deaf. Not that we are not deaf anyway. Not that we are all not masters of Monologue anyway. Bro Johnny K talk on, talk on, jump from city to city, mountains to sea, guitars to bicycles, meaning to meaninglessness. We, your audience, are waving and disappearing into the muddied water, vanishing from your inner gaze.

[3] Johnny K woke up and realized he was a bamboo shoot. Scratch that bit of Kafkaesque. Plants, insects or humans where lies the difference? Is that metamorphosis, which Kafka dreamt of, invalid in our waking lives? I think not. The gaze we have is after all the most protean of things, shape shifting, hard to control, harder to concentrate. What about art? Can art be engendered by jumps? Say via hypertext? Wrong question. For I will be skewered with some of these questions: what the fuck is art? And what are the routes to art? If I say Michelangelo suspended on his back for months to paint the roof of Sistine Chapel is the route, and those murals we cannot still gaze at without feeling a quickening in our bodies, is art, I would be called, justifiably, a fascist.

Is there no art in ephemera? Basho had heard a frog plopping into a pond, and centuries later we hear that echo as loudly as he must have then. Coming back to Johnny K, is he then traveling towards art through his rapid shape shifts? With his monocle, that glassy eye of a camera? With those frozen flashes of his hours? Something sticks in your craw; something that prevents you from accepting that this stuff is capable of living, of enduring. Ah! Again that singular folly of man who doesn’t last for ever, and yet wishes to leave behind some sign that would say, here I was, these are my scratches, and these my genes. Why? Because the deeper secret, the grace, you have tasted once or twice, came to you only through struggle. Let each man, man his own wheel then. You to your boxing ring, where stands the angel of poetry, and Johnny K to his shifting eye.