The Museum


As I race through my museum, I get panicky and can’t catch my breath. Once again I’m late. Finally I see the door to the performance room and skid to a stop. The room is filled, I blush and feel the heat as everyone laughs at my expected late arrival. My fellow artists continue to tease me about never getting to my dreams on time. I wonder how they manage.
"Places everyone" the Conductor, says. "Are the singers ready?" "Ready" reply the birds. "Horns?" "All here" call the Unicorns and elephants. "Drums?" "Set" from the buffalo. Voices by voice each part of the orchestra and choir announces their status. Now it is time for my artists -- painters, sculptors, holographers, lighting and color specialists, each group is ready. The artists of the sea and those of the air were also prepared for their parts in the composition. That left only the flowers, led by my closest friend Orchid. She tells me how hard it is to find good performers this time of year. Late winter flowers are not noted for their perfume.
The room darkens and becomes still. The musicians, each in their own voice, begin the prelude, with the singers and soloists adding their contributions. As the music builds, I feel it filling my body. I am euphoric, as if the cells of my body had been transformed to a harmonic liquid. Slowly my artists take part as they convert the sound into a live sculpture, which flows, moves, changes color and form, expanding the meaning of the music. My soul merges with the production and overwhelms me with a feeling of freedom. I am a part of each of the other artists and they are a part of me. The presentation is alive. The ebb and flow of the sea creatures builds upon the existing work and finally it is time for the flowers, plants, trees and wind. The scent, colors, movements and auras make me feel part of something enchanted. The audience seems to feel the same way since they become part of the performance with their singing, swaying and clapping adding to the planned production.
Abruptly, there is a thud in the area of my solar plexus, and I am wrenched away. There is a very unpleasant screeching sound. The alarm clock is ringing. Today has begun. The radio is playing Vivaldi's "Four Seasons".