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							December 28, 2000 
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							akaday 
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							I'm in a museum. A big long rectangular room, like the Guggenheim in Soho. I have a headache and a stomachache. I'm surrounded by abstract art of the emptiest rectangular form. A pure white painting. A pane of glass mounted in a stand. A blank sheet of paper. A TV screen showing only snow. These works of art are vaguely aggressive in their arrangement. They box me in; no matter where I turn I face one of them. I have about a square foot to move around in. 
							 
					I admit right away that I don't understand them, hoping to defuse my perception of their stubborness, their withdrawal. It doesn't work. I'm still getting upset. I try to show them my harlequin socks and shoes, but they don't care. The ceiling, floor, and walls start to join in on their side. I'm alone. My name is Enchantress. I make believe I see many tiny harmless flames floating and playing. They move freely in and out amongst the barricades of the artworks. I like their shapes. Maybe they are enough. I invite them to burn patterns into my eyes.  | 
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