Sometimes I enjoy visiting the Museum. It does not have to be on Sunday, any day will do. Sometimes I go at night, when the Curator is absent, leaving me free to meander around at my own pace. Every visit is different, just as I am. This is not a coincidence, although the entrance fee itself never changes. All I need do is close my eyes and sooner or later I am walking around without a map, because one never knows what one may discover when one is not searching for anything in particular.
Occasionally it may be a picture gallery, where various self-portraits, conceptual designations, classical affectations, and abstract expressionisms are mounted on lighted walls. At other times, it may become a Museum of Natural History, where I can explore as many creative dioramas of life that my imagination, memory, and projective capacity will allow. In here, people, creatures, and events are constantly shifting and morphing, so it is difficult to pin down whether or not any of them actually existed as portrayed. It seems we tend by nature to be fascinated by ourselves, and so keep dreamily recasting ourselves in all sorts of fictional scenes and virtual experiences.
Just so, is there yet another Museum, one which exists between my thoughts? Now there’s a provocative thought! Let’s take a field trip to that Museum. One thing we can notice right away as we stroll through the corridors is that there is nothing. There are no walls, no stuffed animals grazing in the distance as a happy Neanderthal family gathers around a fire that never burns, no intriguing paintings that cost more than the economy of several small countries, no guards insuring that children do not use their crayons inappropriately, no announcements that the Museum will be closing in 15 minutes, no time at all in fact.
Several well-known composers have written musical pieces about their trips to the Museum, but the only sound in this one is silence. It is not the enforced type of silence which results when the teacher leading a young class through the Museum exasperatedly tells the group to hush up, because they are getting too boisterous. Nor is it that uncomfortable kind of silence that hangs in the air after somebody at the party loudly blurts out an unwarranted insult just as the song that was playing abruptly ends. Rather, it is the relaxed kind of silence which descends when lovers have consummated their passion and now lay in each other’s arms, speechless.
Of course, it all may be quite different in your Museum. We each have our own galleries which we tend to re-visit regularly, as if to review each scene from a new angle. In this way, there really is no past, just a perpetual stream of interpretations on ever-changing Museum exhibits which we have mounted to entertain ourselves, because outside the Museum a strong wind is relentlessly blowing, it is harsh and unforgiving, and it is sweeping everything in sight away.