Anyway, after the woman in the pantsuit left, I decided to check out the rest of the gallery. I've never been much of an art person, but I'm trying to open myself up to new things, I guess. This was as good of a place as any to start.
Unfortunately, nothing particularly caught my eye, at least not the way Dia de los Muertos or this invisible machine did. I got the impression that the majority of the pieces on display were from local or regional artists. The southwest was a major theme in at least one section, anyway. There were lots of earth tones, most prominently the pinkish-brown color of adobe.
I wandered into a large section at the center of the building that housed a collection of large, wide-mouthed vases and various sculptures. They were all very nice--detailed, colorful, expressive, but none of it really excited me. I saw a glow, though. There was a subtle, constant light seeping into my field of vision--a pale blue edge of my world. I kept moving.
In the back were several historical exhibits, which were interesting in their own right. One featured the work of Robert Goddard, essentially the father of rocket science. There was even a replica of his workshop set up in the display, along with large models of several different rockets. It was something to see. I think I felt more of a connection here than with any of the artistic displays outside this little room. There were photos and various documents hanging on the walls. I think I would have like to have met Goddard, but I don't know why. He was a man who wanted to reach the sky. Maybe I know what that feels like.
At least Goddard had the brains to follow through. He launched the first ever liquid-fueled rocket and was a huge inspiration to the generations that followed in his footsteps. Me? I'm just some punk kid who likes to look at the stars. I get the feeling I'll never be anything more. When I finally left that room, I wasn't exactly inspired. I guess I was more ashamed--ashamed of myself. I know I shouldn't be. I know that I'm still young and that my best years are ahead of me, but when I looked at all his work, all his accomplishments, I can't help but feel somewhat inadequate. It doesn't make sense, I know. There isn't a lot that does.
I followed the corridor down to the planetarium, but it was closed. That really disappointed me. I needed a place just to chill out for awhile. I've never been inside a planetarium before, but I can imagine it. I can imagine an enormous dome above me, like a model of the sky, the lights dimmed way down, and a thousand tiny lights sparking into existence. I would've liked to have seen that.
The hallway in front of the planetarium led directly back to the front desk, and its walls were plastered with children's drawings of spaceships and aliens. Cute. I'm reminded again of where I am, a small town that will forever possess a stigma of lunacy. At least, in the little I've seen of Roswell, they try to embrace it, exploit it even. Sure, maybe a large percentage of the outside world sees it as a haven of conspiracy theorists and UFO crazies (and I've got to assume that they do travel here, like a pilgrimage to some bizarre Mecca), but even those social fringe groups have money to spend.
I circled around the building for one more look at Grayson's work before I left, and all the vinyl figurines I could by then picture in my mind were still waiting for me there. It's as if he sculpted them straight from my mind, from some region of the brain that serves as a fluctuating border between my reason and insanity. I didn't really want to leave, but the electric blue walls were starting to close in on my vision. I was feeling overwhelmed.
I noticed the gift shop in the back and made a quick stop to see if anything relating to the exhibit was for sale. Suddenly, I realized why the woman in the pantsuit had emphasized that the figures were unique for their size. An entire collection of miniature vinyl figurines by Evan Grayson was stacked on a shelf beside the counter, and they were all available--for a price, of course. Some of them were obviously from different lines, but the majority were from the this invisible machine series.
I don't know much about urban vinyl--mainly just that they're collectible and are seen as a contemporary urban art form, for whatever that's worth. I know people that collect it, though, and in that respect, they're no different than comic books or coins or records. They're worth different things to different people, and these were suddenly worth a lot to me. I checked my pockets for cash, preferring that over my debit card just in case the latter could be tracked. I had fifty tucked away in my left sock and another fifty stuffed in my pocket, but at nearly ten bucks apiece, the figures were a little pricey. I settled on just one. It was the dark, wiry figure covered with specks of light. It was the one that reminded me of the waitress in Knoxville, someone that seemed to exist an entire lifetime ago.
The guy with the glasses was behind the counter, looking incredibly bored. He nodded at me when he saw me--the way you nod at someone you pass on the street when you make accidental eye contact and feel the need to make some gesture of acknowledgment. I set the small vinyl figure in front of him and handed him a ten from my pocket.
"Good choice," he said to me, as if he knew all my secrets.
"Thanks," I replied, pretending I had none.
He handed back some change, and I dumped it back into my pocket, where it rattled and clinked annoyingly as I walked out of the gift shop and straight to the front of the museum, where the tall girl in the skirt sat smiling in the information booth. The woman in the pantsuit stood nervously beside her and stared at the front door, as if expecting an enormous crowd at any moment.
"Heading out?" the girl asked me.
"Yeah."
The woman in the pantsuit finally noticed me and gave an unsettling smile. It was forced, I could tell, and almost sickening.
"Did you find everything you need?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah, I roamed around a bit, too. It's not often I get the chance to come to a place like this."
"Good. Well, if you need anymore information about Georgia O'Keeffe, there are some books available in the gift shop."
I held the plastic bag I received in the gift shop aloft. Of course, she didn't know there wasn't a book inside.
"I'm way ahead of you," I said.
"Oh, and pamphlets! Would you like a pamphlet?"
"No, thank you. I believe I'm set."
"Great! Let me get your bags for you."
The woman then ducked down beneath the desk alarmingly fast, causing the girl still sitting there to jump backwards in her chair and flash an annoyed look at the back of the pantsuit lady's head. When she reappeared, she hauled my bags around the corner and set them on the tile floor with a satisfied grunt.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome. We hope you enjoyed your visit," she said.
So I left. I walked outside and the overwhelmingly bright daylight stung my eyes, giving me no chance to adjust. When I finally did, I realized what a beautiful day it was. I had a goal now, and nothing could stop me.
I dug out the folded map I'd used early in the morning when I first found my way here. It was bent and marked with long grayish creases from what I must assume was my own abuse. I honestly didn't remember walking through the town in my sleepless haze, but I didn't appear to be too far from the bus station. According to the map, I just had to follow the main road back through town. There in between the station and the museum was another marker on the map for another kind of museum--the UFO Museum. There was no way I was going to miss that.
I tucked my black coat back into my suitcase and set off down the sidewalk, both of my bags slung over my shoulders. I didn't feel like a tourist anymore. Now I was a traveler. I had a place to be.
Unfortunately, nothing particularly caught my eye, at least not the way Dia de los Muertos or this invisible machine did. I got the impression that the majority of the pieces on display were from local or regional artists. The southwest was a major theme in at least one section, anyway. There were lots of earth tones, most prominently the pinkish-brown color of adobe.
I wandered into a large section at the center of the building that housed a collection of large, wide-mouthed vases and various sculptures. They were all very nice--detailed, colorful, expressive, but none of it really excited me. I saw a glow, though. There was a subtle, constant light seeping into my field of vision--a pale blue edge of my world. I kept moving.
In the back were several historical exhibits, which were interesting in their own right. One featured the work of Robert Goddard, essentially the father of rocket science. There was even a replica of his workshop set up in the display, along with large models of several different rockets. It was something to see. I think I felt more of a connection here than with any of the artistic displays outside this little room. There were photos and various documents hanging on the walls. I think I would have like to have met Goddard, but I don't know why. He was a man who wanted to reach the sky. Maybe I know what that feels like.
At least Goddard had the brains to follow through. He launched the first ever liquid-fueled rocket and was a huge inspiration to the generations that followed in his footsteps. Me? I'm just some punk kid who likes to look at the stars. I get the feeling I'll never be anything more. When I finally left that room, I wasn't exactly inspired. I guess I was more ashamed--ashamed of myself. I know I shouldn't be. I know that I'm still young and that my best years are ahead of me, but when I looked at all his work, all his accomplishments, I can't help but feel somewhat inadequate. It doesn't make sense, I know. There isn't a lot that does.
I followed the corridor down to the planetarium, but it was closed. That really disappointed me. I needed a place just to chill out for awhile. I've never been inside a planetarium before, but I can imagine it. I can imagine an enormous dome above me, like a model of the sky, the lights dimmed way down, and a thousand tiny lights sparking into existence. I would've liked to have seen that.
The hallway in front of the planetarium led directly back to the front desk, and its walls were plastered with children's drawings of spaceships and aliens. Cute. I'm reminded again of where I am, a small town that will forever possess a stigma of lunacy. At least, in the little I've seen of Roswell, they try to embrace it, exploit it even. Sure, maybe a large percentage of the outside world sees it as a haven of conspiracy theorists and UFO crazies (and I've got to assume that they do travel here, like a pilgrimage to some bizarre Mecca), but even those social fringe groups have money to spend.
I circled around the building for one more look at Grayson's work before I left, and all the vinyl figurines I could by then picture in my mind were still waiting for me there. It's as if he sculpted them straight from my mind, from some region of the brain that serves as a fluctuating border between my reason and insanity. I didn't really want to leave, but the electric blue walls were starting to close in on my vision. I was feeling overwhelmed.
I noticed the gift shop in the back and made a quick stop to see if anything relating to the exhibit was for sale. Suddenly, I realized why the woman in the pantsuit had emphasized that the figures were unique for their size. An entire collection of miniature vinyl figurines by Evan Grayson was stacked on a shelf beside the counter, and they were all available--for a price, of course. Some of them were obviously from different lines, but the majority were from the this invisible machine series.
I don't know much about urban vinyl--mainly just that they're collectible and are seen as a contemporary urban art form, for whatever that's worth. I know people that collect it, though, and in that respect, they're no different than comic books or coins or records. They're worth different things to different people, and these were suddenly worth a lot to me. I checked my pockets for cash, preferring that over my debit card just in case the latter could be tracked. I had fifty tucked away in my left sock and another fifty stuffed in my pocket, but at nearly ten bucks apiece, the figures were a little pricey. I settled on just one. It was the dark, wiry figure covered with specks of light. It was the one that reminded me of the waitress in Knoxville, someone that seemed to exist an entire lifetime ago.
The guy with the glasses was behind the counter, looking incredibly bored. He nodded at me when he saw me--the way you nod at someone you pass on the street when you make accidental eye contact and feel the need to make some gesture of acknowledgment. I set the small vinyl figure in front of him and handed him a ten from my pocket.
"Good choice," he said to me, as if he knew all my secrets.
"Thanks," I replied, pretending I had none.
He handed back some change, and I dumped it back into my pocket, where it rattled and clinked annoyingly as I walked out of the gift shop and straight to the front of the museum, where the tall girl in the skirt sat smiling in the information booth. The woman in the pantsuit stood nervously beside her and stared at the front door, as if expecting an enormous crowd at any moment.
"Heading out?" the girl asked me.
"Yeah."
The woman in the pantsuit finally noticed me and gave an unsettling smile. It was forced, I could tell, and almost sickening.
"Did you find everything you need?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah, I roamed around a bit, too. It's not often I get the chance to come to a place like this."
"Good. Well, if you need anymore information about Georgia O'Keeffe, there are some books available in the gift shop."
I held the plastic bag I received in the gift shop aloft. Of course, she didn't know there wasn't a book inside.
"I'm way ahead of you," I said.
"Oh, and pamphlets! Would you like a pamphlet?"
"No, thank you. I believe I'm set."
"Great! Let me get your bags for you."
The woman then ducked down beneath the desk alarmingly fast, causing the girl still sitting there to jump backwards in her chair and flash an annoyed look at the back of the pantsuit lady's head. When she reappeared, she hauled my bags around the corner and set them on the tile floor with a satisfied grunt.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome. We hope you enjoyed your visit," she said.
So I left. I walked outside and the overwhelmingly bright daylight stung my eyes, giving me no chance to adjust. When I finally did, I realized what a beautiful day it was. I had a goal now, and nothing could stop me.
I dug out the folded map I'd used early in the morning when I first found my way here. It was bent and marked with long grayish creases from what I must assume was my own abuse. I honestly didn't remember walking through the town in my sleepless haze, but I didn't appear to be too far from the bus station. According to the map, I just had to follow the main road back through town. There in between the station and the museum was another marker on the map for another kind of museum--the UFO Museum. There was no way I was going to miss that.
I tucked my black coat back into my suitcase and set off down the sidewalk, both of my bags slung over my shoulders. I didn't feel like a tourist anymore. Now I was a traveler. I had a place to be.
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