Tag Archives: curator

Delicate Surgeries

My brain hurts. My cranium has atrophied, and I’m starting to believe that I was never meant to perform delicate, precise surgeries. Some tell me to give it up, that I’m only fooling myself. Others tell me that I’m on a mission and should complete my work. I don’t know who to believe anymore. All I am certain of is the feeling of being clogged, then drained of my senses, only to become numb and unwilling to move on.

It all started three months ago, when I was intent on finding a cure for curling of the pages and those pesky spots which creep in like a fox on a henhouse, leaving only the marks of having been there, yet to relentlessly propagate more hazing reminders of having been there in the first place. It seems that finding my niche with the ephemeral, has me wondering if I aided to the allergies that have entered my head and have left me in such a flat-line with my work.

It was an old book, leather bound and had been stored in the most uncaring conditions – an attic with leaks. Usually glad to get my hands between the binding’s seams, I found that I could not continue past this step. And after visiting physician to allergist to ear, nose and throat specialist and being prescribed one sinus drying-up agent after another, I was starting to rethink my vocation and began looking for a more suitable one that didn’t compromise my sensory judgement.

Deep down inside; however, I knew that my work as a curator of ephemera was important to the history of man. So many times in our histories, have fires and floods and asteroid smashes, inhilitaed the remnants of a society that once was. I couldn’t do it. I could not leave my work, for I was so pleased with myself as I immersed in saving those documents and am so proud to have saved a part of the past, that I didn’t know of another job which would bring worth and scope in being useful.

Yes, my brain hurts, but if that is what needs be, than who am I to take away such contentment. I’ll just keep popping Claritin® every twelve hours to get through.

-dld 12.28.1o

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Take it Away, Tuesday: My brain hurts.

The only rule: start your story with the above sentence (write whatever comes to mind; improvise!).

The Vanished Veneto

Sherlock entered the main hall of the museum, looking for the curator of the Renaissance collection, without much luck, so he left word with a security guard that he was there to meet Mr. Boxwood and could be found walking around the right wing to collect clues.

As soon as he walked into that large cavity of a room, he was struck by it’s lack of proper lighting. This, he noted on his pocket tablet. As his eyes followed the left wall’s line, he was taken aback, for there was a rather large picture frame hanging askew and obviously missing the recently purchased Master’s work.

Upon closer inspection, he noted that it, “appears to have been removed by skilled hands” and that “minute canvas clippings” lay on the floor; when in walked Mr. Boxwood, who’s stride carried like a librarian’s, quick and lightfooted. “Ah, Boxwood,” said Sherlock as he presented himself, his hand extended, “I see that your museum’s Prized Bartolomeo Veneto is missing!” He then went on by telling the curator, “The entry doors seem to be secure and the vestibule well-equipped with cameras and lighting, but this room has so little… it is dark in comparison, the thief could have easily been in this room, and have hidden in the shadows at closing yesterday.”

Without a salt-lick’s stain to go by, Sherlock had to start his inquiry with the canvas clippings and work backwards. “This”, he exclaimed with pointed index finger in the air, “will take a while!”

~dld Oct. 27, 2010

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T10’s Words, Inc., Wednesday:(1) appear, (2) salt, and (3) frame