A Museum, whisper insidevoices — a question, is there anything more indicative of the decline of the universe than a Museum, you think? too many reporters here tonight, watch your words, mind your mouth — though the universe, that’s a Museum itself, a Museum unto itself, isn’t it, wasn’t it? Questions, too many unanswered…is there anything more horrendously depressing, I’m asking? Who’s awake who would know? A Museum isn’t the end of the world, no, it’s the world itself ending, dying, happening as we speak, here and now — the as slow then only more terrifying murder of everything; the lightblind casechoke, display’s duststrangle, the peccant poison known as culture — which itself ’s only to be preserved, to sterility, never to engender again.
And then there’s nothing more repugnant than a fundraiser for a Museum, especially if it’s a formal night like tonight, a tails with a tie and an evening-dress everything down to the pearls affair, out with the jewelrybox, out of the safedeposit box, then the bowtie you tie by hand not the clipon, God forbid, how there’s nothing optional, never is. Mothballs roll their ways down the slick marble stairs, bouncy chuckles, they tripup the salaried slaves in attendance. Take pity, this is the first night they’ve dressed up in a while, have permitted themselves the luxury of…to become the lover of their own sin, an embrace black and cuffed, its enjoyment — how to explain it? please, provide us their thinking. How lately, they’ve reached this permanent stasis, nunc stans and all that, the fat reunited with his brother happy again, in the middle of the metropolitan desert — the goy showing up bearing gifts in the form of simple household solutions, such as variously blinking and beeping organizational helpers, it’s said. Call it another Enlightenment, call it a selfemancipation, a realization, an actualization — call it what you will, you’re already late.
