Amy relaxed herself, sat down next to Sue and spoke.
“So...so why am I leaving?”
“Because you’ll die here,” Sue said in a soft, emphatic tone looking at Amy. “As an artist, you’ll die here.” It was now her turn to reply.
“That spiritual fog you talk about that wraps you in such a secure, peaceful, meaningful existence with choke you. It will smother you.
“We’ve been though this and I’ll say it again. Every corner, every spot in this town has a story. It is immortal, just like you said, it all has meaning. The whole damn towns exists because of what it was, not what it is now. It is the longest continually inhabited city in the United States founded by Europeans,” Sue rattled off in a near robot voice. “And because it was first, it is today. Because of what happened four hundred years ago, people come here to see the streets and the doorways. These streets and every doorway serve no purpose except as proof for what was. The town isn’t...it was!”
Amy replied with a mocking “So? So what does that have to do with the artist? In fact, that’s what the artist needs. All of that past is inspiration. This is fertile ground.”
“This is sterile ground,” Sue said, interrupting. “And you know it and you should do like the rest of us after graduation and leave. This is where you went to college, not where you are supposed to live.”
“The artist stops producing because of the fog,” Sue said now speaking in the voice of a gentle teacher. “The artist becomes a leech. She feels she has no need to produce something that will last, that will be immortal because she is satisfied with all the immortality around her. There are no gaps to fill. No unsaid truths. The truth here is what used to be, history, and all that needs to be done each day is to retell the same stories again and again and again and again.
“Look Amy,” Sue now turned towards her friend, face to face. “How many people have we met in this town who used to do stuff? They used to be artists. They moved here after 30 years with the some symphony in Ohio or used to exhibit in Boston galleries or used to act in television or used to sing in a band? They used to paint, but haven’t done much lately. They used to dance, but now they just talk about it. They have three unfinished novels and instead of working on finishing them they sit in the Monk’s Vineyard and retell the characters’ back-stories and debate their own plot twists.
“Those people fill this town and the town has something to do with it. It scares me and that’s why I’m leaving and you should leave too.”