Project Experience //Joshua Schuster Museums, Archives, Monuments, Bureaus Here for excerpt.	Continued from page 1. You convince the doctor you are sick to enter this archive. Why don't they just let me in, you ask yourself, since it's obvious you are ill? Ill to whom? Your illness is a kind of _argument_. The doctor is full of belief, in that he doesn't believe you. Who should believe you? After all, you wear your illness like a badge, a patch of identity, like you are in the army of the sick. But you have a family to take care of, a family of illnesses. You deserve to be in these archives. It is so natural to be inside the archives. Poets too, surely, sick unto death, deserve entry. Let us in. Come into us. It's not that we mean to rebel too much-- just want to expand the range of language, the range of the transgressively erotic, lend a bit of magic to the world. And yes, please, we'd like our names in the museum too. I wring my hands all the time. Scripted sentence. Bureaucrat's heart, feigning difference. And how surprising, after all, when you pick up a first book by someone 21 and finds hands opened out into this: "An audience of heads, one mound after another. A smouldering mound: a pile of black burnt dirt constantly giving off smoke to be placed in front of any structure which was burned down. A temple is burned down. One does not clear it away, but let it remain in its remains. This is now the holy place, a place of unplacement, a burned and charred temple to remain standing still burning in the minds which live among it. _That mound, there, it is breathing._ The thought mounds up." (idea for ending review): In an age of pixels, electronic and poetic, where "religion is merely the bomber exploding with his bomb," Schuster's book a little document of compassionate thought that mounds up-- a listening and thinking that "curls the air and folds it into words," a little charm, at least for a spell, against the archive's siren song. If you collect small and fleeting things, whose meanings build and build, get this passport. Offer it, willingly, to the border guard inside you. -- Kent Johnson To download this eBook, visit the E-Library. Required: free adobe acrobat reader.