Museum
4.10.06

I went alone through the corridors of time, past the work of hundreds of people from hundreds of times, long ago. Past the pictures of those who could afford to have pictures drawn of them, with grown-up crayons. The floor creaked, almost fakily, as if they (they) wanted me to feel old. Old and worn down. Old and as if someone could hear the creak, as if someone was watching the girl (me-) move slowly alone down the corridors, houses of pieces of time.

I went alone through the corridors of time, lingering outside the glass boxes that encased the ebb and flow of time. Time. What is time? I could not picture, like the hung-up-on-the-wall-pictures drawn in crayon, what life was like for these masters. The floor changed slowly from poor to perfect, dark to marble-white. I pressed my nose to the glass boxes encasing everyday objects for (them) and now- now it was Art.

I went alone, as gene pools caught up to me. Caught up to me and held me in their noise, in their awe and they never let me go. I trailed behind, always in sight, feeling ill feelings and wanting out. The ebb and flow of time (encased in glass boxes which I lingered outside of) held me captive, held me inside of the glass box which girls like me pressed their noses against, as if I- I was Art.

An everyday object and I was Art.

Black and grey and white. Blue. Gold and silver, silver and gold. The colors of time, which reached across time, into the time of the future and I was Art. Alone. Alone with all these people who mill about, unsure where to go. Unsure of… “Ooh, creepy,” “Wow!”… Alone with these people who look at the pictures of people. I went alone through the corridors of time, past the Art. Art. Nothing but Art. Why does this qualify as Art? And this! Why is this…

Why should I trust them to put only Art? As I went alone through the corridors of time, alone with the gene pools, I contemplated this. Somehow, these pieces of non-Art had wormed their way into the glass-encased boxes, standing proudly beside me as if they belonged. And were they Art? Who was I to judge? Who was I to decide?

I trailed behind, a cacophony of colors and Art, in a blizzard of white and black. Why, I did not know. But I wanted out. I, the Art, I the Art-observer. Somehow, I wanted out. Because the time-glass-marble-poor-boxes encased me, and I wanted out.

--twirling flags
Based on an excursion to the MFA. Yes, I know it rambles. That's the point. So.