As I write this the happy cries of children leak into my room from the school yard next door.
I am usually impervious to these noises such is their ubiquitous status in my life but this morning for some reason I hear them... and am immediately transported (through a seemingly never ending succession of mediocre performance/installation art pieces put together by lazy, uninspired and uninspiring, talentless 'Artists' who use the sound of children playing a metaphor for innocence or some such hokum) back to a fondly remembered muse.
Years ago the Muse and I worked on a vignette for her MA show (before the crack and heroin really got to her) in which the muse, in the guise of Manet's ballerina, hooked on crack, tutu tattered and filthy from the constant abuse she endured as the price she paid to her chemical god, smiling numbly, finger in mouth and childishly singing some unintelligible ditty, swung too and fro on a garlanded swing in the middle of a warehouse.
The soundtrack to this was the innocent playground cries of children.
I think what the muse was trying to say was: Make the most of it girls because I am what men are going to turn you into!
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