Going to Museums in Boston

its Sunday and with the power still being out, I somehow figured myself into going to a museum. I'm not sure what came over me, because if theres any city you shouldn't go to a museum in, its Boston, Massachusetts.

Some guy wrote in the paper once that he'd never go see a Woody Allen film in Cambridge because people can't laugh loud enough. It lets everyone know that they got the joke and that they thought it was a riot. Same goes for museums in Boston.

No one really laughs, but everyones so fascinated, and they all stand in positions that suggest that interest; arms folded with their hands on their chin, and an index finger running up the sides of their faces. They'd argue to hot hell that I was wrong, but all that feigned interst ruins it for everyone else.

The walk to the museum only drives this issue home. The city itself is one big posture. The walk along the Fenway is filled with females-only college and their high fences, telling me I'm excluded because my morale compass is questionable. I catch the patchwork conversations of the women on the front stoops as I pass by, sitting 10 steps up and conversing about god knows what, but they've all got a tone.

The problem with a city full of college kids is that they all think they've seen the light. They know the truth and the rest of us are ignorant. Theres a truth alright, and its sitting on the otherside of those cast-iron gothic fences. But what there isn't is a light. The reality of struggle exists out here, down off the steps and out on the bus route, and the freeways. I take a deep breath and tell myself they'll all come down from that cloud someday.

The Gardner museum is a collection of works from Isabella herself, mainly untouched since 1924. Years before the depression, and Roosevelt, when Boston was dominated by Brahmin Yankees. The ghosts of old aristrocacy still linger here, where all the mansions became galleries and historical societies. Their upper cicrcles of society never left, they just became more unattainable. These days everyones chasing them.

The reality here is that everyones lying about their station. The old money trust funds exist for very few, still too many people vacation in the south of france, and take in shows at Tremont - or at least claim to. I wouldn't bother me if I thought it was a few people, but this is what Bostons become. Theres no middle ground here. We're all still looking to rehash 1949, the upper crust against the waves of immigrants. Boston has become an affectation of reactionism. Everything is hammed up. Your diction is sharpened or dulled depending on which group you hate more.

A brief respite comes from a New York man who speaks loudly about something he likes, and laments its lack of lighting. You can almost hear the aghastment as people begin to rattle off how it would damage the work, or how gawdy it would be. You get the idea he hasn't said this about every piece in the museum and its refreshing to see, amongst the professors and the doctors, a middle class man on vacation, confident in his skin, apprecaiting something for its inherent value.

My fun is shattered when i come acorss a woman, speaking to a viola player who'd just performed in the concert hall, "it must be so intersting..." she says before I exit and she fades.

Right before the gift shop I come across a bust of John the Baptist. The wall says that prior to aquisition, the piece had been painted over more than once, and its vibrant colors are not reflective of its creation. In fact we can only be certain its john the baptist because he's wearing an animal pelt beneath his robes and his mouth is open to signify testification.

Such is Boston.

I grab a postcard of the garden and head for home, hoping the electricity is back together. The trolley darts out toward the leafy suburbs and I've had my fill of memories for the day.