Suddenly, I invent a new kind of museum -- a place where people stand by themselves in small glass vestibules. During each exhibit, a hologram of a poem appears (often as the original holograph). Certain sections or words, which are highlighted or underlined electronically, are translated or explained by a voice over. Sometimes the information deals with the author or the conditions under which the poem has been written; sometimes it pertains directly to the meaning of the poem. Other times, the brain activity, mood and blood pressure of the viewer are measured; and, based on the results, meaningful relationships of form and function that would otherwise go unnoticed or unfelt are revealed at no additional cost.
Next, a painting, at random, manifests in vivid detail next to the poem. No matter how disparate the association between image and word seems to be, our computers find interesting, often startling, connections -- and disclose them at the expense of the observer's excitement.
I have dreamed it up over night. And after I finish building it, hesitation, regret and serious bouts of guilt set in. But to my surprise, the people come. They flock to the museum in droves, and the line extends from the entrance to the parking lot, off into the hills beyond the smokestacks, all the way back around to the exit, forming a great loop.
There are a few seizures. Otherwise things run smoothly.
Later, a cancer grows in my lung, crawls into my throat and chokes me to death. My grandchildren, as my will dictates, take over operation of the museum -- though not very successfully, because they and everyone else I know are and always will be waiting in line.
