The Boring Museum | Museums are boring. They have too many lumps of rock, and too many chunks of words. Occasionally there's some shiny thingy, or a pretty diorama - but even then, why waste even half a day there, when there's so much of the city to be plundered: to be shopped, eaten, and photographed? Why waste your time amid dusty, musty, dead relics when outside, there is the world in HD immediacy?
Because, you need to understand, there are: stories.
Because stories condense, compress, conceal, connect entire mountains and galaxies of histories, geographies, mythologies and topologies. The souls of entire cultures may be inscribed in a story. .
Because there is greedy grinning half-headed Kala, the demon above the door, who ate himself out of devotion to Shiva, the Destroyer-Renewer in the Hindu Trimurti. Because there is a Dayak war helmet crowned with a hornbill head and a mirror, the means to grant its wearer great power in battle. Bronze Vietnamese rain-summoning drums found 3000 kilometres away in Rote Island in an age before container ships. Golden trinkets we still don't know how to craft with modern technology. Men who crossed oceans, navigating by the radiance of the stars, the texture of waves and the taste of the wind, so that today there are still words and ways familiar in both Madagascar and Makassar. Wars that were waged for spice that grew on only one island of this planet. Because science fiction and fantasy weren't dreamed and cooked up - they were merely borrowing from history.
Because there are stories, so strange they zoom past disbelief/unbelief into stunned truth. Because there are worlds hidden just below the waterline of the present, teeming with drama, danger, damnation, and delight.
Museums are boring indeed. They will drill and pierce right through you. Look at the relics, the artefacts. If you can listen slowly, and wash them again with the mythmaking imagination that is your human heritage, you will see it. You will hear it. You will feel it, thudding in your heart: the breathing, ceaseless industry and ingenuity of the human spirit, crystallised into these few collected shards.
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emek kelimesi anlamını yitirdikçe bende yitip gidiyorum. Küçük dönemeçlere sıkışınca, sakince çözüm üretmek fikrin fiilen fikirde kaldı. Sahi sevgi neydi?