PJ Swift

That collective song

It comes again -- that vision of the collective song, sung by many, each with misty nostalgia in their eyes, each sharing a culminating moment that indicates a common past. Their every unifying word and coordinated undulation testify to the primordial essence of that shared melody.

S. is simply a curious outsider, engaged in this phenomenon not as a member of that swaying chorus but as an amateur anthropologist, studying a tribe which he cannot become a member of. One can mouth the words and hum the tune, but it is far too late to become initiated.

Remembering my modernity

The young girl wanders further through the maze-like structure of the modern art museum. It's a spacious structure with few items. She turns the corner, where an elderly woman sits on the floor against the wall, crying loudly, sobbing. It's not entirely certain to the young girl if the sight of this crying woman is a performance art exhibit or an authentic moment. She asks the woman if she is all right. The woman stops for a moment. Yes, she replies, I am just crying in remembrance of my modernity. I wish I could have my modernity. 

The girl looks puzzled. No answer is expected from her. She walks off as the woman gives her a wan, sublime smile. The girl is now pensive and agitated. She thinks to herself, I am now lamenting my future nostalgia.