When I'd taken it in--the nature of this place and the people in it, I really started to look around. I moved from exhibit to exhibit, wanting to find something to convince me, to make me believe. I studied dioramas of UFO crash sights and alien autopsy rooms, locked away behind back-lit plexiglass walls, and I moved on, shuffling across gray vinyl flooring. There were framed newspaper articles hanging on the walls along with printed accounts of the UFO experiences of so-called influential people. If nothing else, I learned that Jimmy Carter saw a UFO in October of 1969. He was outdoors with several members of a Lions Club somewhere in Georgia. They saw something bright in the sky and looked up. It moved toward them and then away several times, vibrating in the night.
I moved along. My sneakers squeaked on the floor. There was a map of the United States covered with thumbtacks representing all the places where UFO sightings had occurred. Honestly, I'm surprised there weren't more. I had a sudden, inspired idea to check my own hometown and see if there was a red pin pushed on top of it, as if that would be some validation for my light, but there was nothing there--just empty space.
Further down was an enormous collection of photographs featuring crop circles around the world, and I died a little inside. Okay, I can accept people having faith in flying saucers and close encounters, but crop circles? Seriously? It's all rubbish. The first ones popped up in England, I think, and they were complete hoaxes. The pranksters even crawled out of the woodwork to admit as much, and--big surprise--there are hundreds if not thousands of copycats around the world who thought they'd be clever by duplicating the joke with increasingly intricate designs in their own fields. Seeing a supposed alien landing site that looks like a giant Star of David really takes away what little credence was contained in an already flimsy hypothesis. It took a few deep breaths to calm down a bit, but only because people actually point to this stuff as gospel in their argument for the existence of aliens. I moved on quickly.
In the back, away from the hokey sequined models of alien spaceships was the good stuff, the hard stuff. Here was the science, the astronomy. Pictures of distant galaxies and nebulae. Now this was the stuff that really caught my attention. You can look at all the plaster alien busts you want, but there is no greater case for the existence of alien life than simply look up at the sky. There's so much out there--so many places that we may never see or imagine, and among this multitude of stars and worlds, the odds dictate that there is more to this universe than just one tiny speck that was given the burden of life. That's all we really want, isn't it? Those of us in that museum, those of us that peer through telescopes, those of us that look up at the night sky--all we really want is to know that we are not alone. We want to know that we aren't the only ones who have to face mortality and the everyday choices of life. We want to know that we are not an accident.
So I stared at those vivid photographs of green and purple clouds, old and young galaxies hiding secrets that we're never meant to learn. That's where our hope lies. If we're to have faith in anything, it should be faith in distant stars.
I'm not sure how long I spent in that one tiny section of the museum, as if I was expecting something momentous to happen. I did feel inspiration--the same sort I'd tasted at the Goddard exhibit in the other museum, but without the overwhelming sense of inadequacy. This was pure inspiration--bright, white, shining. I wanted to see the stars again.
After that, I paid little attention to anything else displayed. There were a lot of models, I recall, and there was a tiny scrap of metal purportedly not of this world that did steal a bit of my interest. For the most part, though, I'd seen all that I needed to see. The museum itself was a curious little place and a nice distraction from everything else that was happening to me, but it meant nothing more. I was reminded of this when I came full circle right at the entrance of the gift shop, which was easily half the size of everything outside. This was business--the business of diversion. I left quickly.
There was a small cafe across the street, sharing the same building as a small souvenir shop, and I realized that I hadn't eaten anything for awhile. Honestly, I can't remember the last thing I'd had--nothing earlier in the morning, of course. Maybe I'd grabbed something last night in my sleep-deprived state. We stopped a few times, after all, so it was entirely possible. All I knew was that I was hungry and sure of that much. I tried to look past the large, aluminum foil-covered spaceship that was mounted on the outside wall above the windows, which took every last bit of strength I had. I was growing hungrier by the moment, as if the very thought that I hadn't eaten instantly reminded my stomach it was empty, so I swallowed my pride and walked inside.
The place was small, with a few empty tables to choose from. I ordered a Coke and a burger, which was much better than food in an alien-themed cafe had any right to be. It was cheap, too, easing the gradual hemorrhaging of cash from my pocket. I ate quickly and left before the overflowing stock of bullshit souvenirs threatened what remained of my sanity.
I turned back to my map and set out for the bus station, wading through the traffic and the campy advertisements that lined the street. I noticed something that began to worry me--the electric blue field in my peripheral vision had returned. I hadn't noticed it since I left the art museum earlier in the morning, so either it had gone away or I'd simply gotten so used to it that it no longer bothered me. But here it was back again, and there was no question that it was stronger, brighter. I wasn't seeing the mechanical and organic things I usually see--only blue. At one point there was a spark--a tiny flare of blue light that broke away from the sidelined mass and buzzed erratically straight in front of me, into my direct line of vision. It pulsed and raced away quickly, like the reflection of a cop's flashing blue lights down a wet street.
This had never happened before, and quite frankly, I was a little scared. I could handle the corners, the quick glimpses of things I could never be certain about, but this was different. This was something from that world blatantly taunting me. That single spark of blue light represented everything that terrified me. I may joke about going crazy and hanging by my last thread of sanity, but it really is the thing I'm scared of the most. If I can't trust my senses and my most basic faculties, what can I trust? I will not become a vegetable. I won't be made a wracking huddled mass unable to feel or think. My life is mine to control, not some spark or strange machine's.
I stumbled the rest of the way to the station, the rubber toes of my sneakers skidding across the pavement. Inside, it looked like all the others I'd been in over the past couple of days, so much so that I'd never be able to otherwise tell what city I was in. I walked up to the girl behind the counter and explained my situation--or at least my version of it. I was on a sleeping medication, I told her, and last night I wandered away from the station while under its effects. It was like sleepwalking, I explained. I still had the ticket to prove that I was supposed to be on the bus to LA that left very early that morning, but I don't think she bought it.
"Sorry, no refunds," she said.
It's my own fault. First of all, that's what I get for picking the cheapest cross-country fare I could find. But I had to leave, and I'm glad that I did. As I scraped together my remaining cash, digging through my pockets and my sock for folded green scraps, I decided that it would be worth it to blow all my remaining money just to get to LA. I would pay anything for answers.
And I did. Aside from my ATM card, which I worried way too much about using, I was now broke, but I had a ticket in my hands. The departure wasn't for another three hours, so I settled into one of the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs and began to read.
I dove back into Calvino and his Invisible Cities. It was a thin book, and since I had already finished the first half, it didn't take long to read the rest. I thumbed quickly and carelessly through the pages as I read, resulting in a cut on my right forefinger. Blood rose to the surface, but was quickly forgotten.
I absorbed the descriptions of Marco Polo's cities. They reminded me a bit too much of the things I'd seen--fantastic, vibrant, existent only to the man who had seen them, leaving the receptive Khan to wonder and secretly doubt. Here I am, a sort of Marco Polo, staking out invisible territory and telling a silent world what I've seen. The only difference is that in my case, there's no one to care.
I spend the rest of my wait deep in my books and my journal. I don't dare take my eyes off the pages or lose my focus even for a moment. I can't take anything else right now.
I moved along. My sneakers squeaked on the floor. There was a map of the United States covered with thumbtacks representing all the places where UFO sightings had occurred. Honestly, I'm surprised there weren't more. I had a sudden, inspired idea to check my own hometown and see if there was a red pin pushed on top of it, as if that would be some validation for my light, but there was nothing there--just empty space.
Further down was an enormous collection of photographs featuring crop circles around the world, and I died a little inside. Okay, I can accept people having faith in flying saucers and close encounters, but crop circles? Seriously? It's all rubbish. The first ones popped up in England, I think, and they were complete hoaxes. The pranksters even crawled out of the woodwork to admit as much, and--big surprise--there are hundreds if not thousands of copycats around the world who thought they'd be clever by duplicating the joke with increasingly intricate designs in their own fields. Seeing a supposed alien landing site that looks like a giant Star of David really takes away what little credence was contained in an already flimsy hypothesis. It took a few deep breaths to calm down a bit, but only because people actually point to this stuff as gospel in their argument for the existence of aliens. I moved on quickly.
In the back, away from the hokey sequined models of alien spaceships was the good stuff, the hard stuff. Here was the science, the astronomy. Pictures of distant galaxies and nebulae. Now this was the stuff that really caught my attention. You can look at all the plaster alien busts you want, but there is no greater case for the existence of alien life than simply look up at the sky. There's so much out there--so many places that we may never see or imagine, and among this multitude of stars and worlds, the odds dictate that there is more to this universe than just one tiny speck that was given the burden of life. That's all we really want, isn't it? Those of us in that museum, those of us that peer through telescopes, those of us that look up at the night sky--all we really want is to know that we are not alone. We want to know that we aren't the only ones who have to face mortality and the everyday choices of life. We want to know that we are not an accident.
So I stared at those vivid photographs of green and purple clouds, old and young galaxies hiding secrets that we're never meant to learn. That's where our hope lies. If we're to have faith in anything, it should be faith in distant stars.
I'm not sure how long I spent in that one tiny section of the museum, as if I was expecting something momentous to happen. I did feel inspiration--the same sort I'd tasted at the Goddard exhibit in the other museum, but without the overwhelming sense of inadequacy. This was pure inspiration--bright, white, shining. I wanted to see the stars again.
After that, I paid little attention to anything else displayed. There were a lot of models, I recall, and there was a tiny scrap of metal purportedly not of this world that did steal a bit of my interest. For the most part, though, I'd seen all that I needed to see. The museum itself was a curious little place and a nice distraction from everything else that was happening to me, but it meant nothing more. I was reminded of this when I came full circle right at the entrance of the gift shop, which was easily half the size of everything outside. This was business--the business of diversion. I left quickly.
There was a small cafe across the street, sharing the same building as a small souvenir shop, and I realized that I hadn't eaten anything for awhile. Honestly, I can't remember the last thing I'd had--nothing earlier in the morning, of course. Maybe I'd grabbed something last night in my sleep-deprived state. We stopped a few times, after all, so it was entirely possible. All I knew was that I was hungry and sure of that much. I tried to look past the large, aluminum foil-covered spaceship that was mounted on the outside wall above the windows, which took every last bit of strength I had. I was growing hungrier by the moment, as if the very thought that I hadn't eaten instantly reminded my stomach it was empty, so I swallowed my pride and walked inside.
The place was small, with a few empty tables to choose from. I ordered a Coke and a burger, which was much better than food in an alien-themed cafe had any right to be. It was cheap, too, easing the gradual hemorrhaging of cash from my pocket. I ate quickly and left before the overflowing stock of bullshit souvenirs threatened what remained of my sanity.
I turned back to my map and set out for the bus station, wading through the traffic and the campy advertisements that lined the street. I noticed something that began to worry me--the electric blue field in my peripheral vision had returned. I hadn't noticed it since I left the art museum earlier in the morning, so either it had gone away or I'd simply gotten so used to it that it no longer bothered me. But here it was back again, and there was no question that it was stronger, brighter. I wasn't seeing the mechanical and organic things I usually see--only blue. At one point there was a spark--a tiny flare of blue light that broke away from the sidelined mass and buzzed erratically straight in front of me, into my direct line of vision. It pulsed and raced away quickly, like the reflection of a cop's flashing blue lights down a wet street.
This had never happened before, and quite frankly, I was a little scared. I could handle the corners, the quick glimpses of things I could never be certain about, but this was different. This was something from that world blatantly taunting me. That single spark of blue light represented everything that terrified me. I may joke about going crazy and hanging by my last thread of sanity, but it really is the thing I'm scared of the most. If I can't trust my senses and my most basic faculties, what can I trust? I will not become a vegetable. I won't be made a wracking huddled mass unable to feel or think. My life is mine to control, not some spark or strange machine's.
I stumbled the rest of the way to the station, the rubber toes of my sneakers skidding across the pavement. Inside, it looked like all the others I'd been in over the past couple of days, so much so that I'd never be able to otherwise tell what city I was in. I walked up to the girl behind the counter and explained my situation--or at least my version of it. I was on a sleeping medication, I told her, and last night I wandered away from the station while under its effects. It was like sleepwalking, I explained. I still had the ticket to prove that I was supposed to be on the bus to LA that left very early that morning, but I don't think she bought it.
"Sorry, no refunds," she said.
It's my own fault. First of all, that's what I get for picking the cheapest cross-country fare I could find. But I had to leave, and I'm glad that I did. As I scraped together my remaining cash, digging through my pockets and my sock for folded green scraps, I decided that it would be worth it to blow all my remaining money just to get to LA. I would pay anything for answers.
And I did. Aside from my ATM card, which I worried way too much about using, I was now broke, but I had a ticket in my hands. The departure wasn't for another three hours, so I settled into one of the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs and began to read.
I dove back into Calvino and his Invisible Cities. It was a thin book, and since I had already finished the first half, it didn't take long to read the rest. I thumbed quickly and carelessly through the pages as I read, resulting in a cut on my right forefinger. Blood rose to the surface, but was quickly forgotten.
I absorbed the descriptions of Marco Polo's cities. They reminded me a bit too much of the things I'd seen--fantastic, vibrant, existent only to the man who had seen them, leaving the receptive Khan to wonder and secretly doubt. Here I am, a sort of Marco Polo, staking out invisible territory and telling a silent world what I've seen. The only difference is that in my case, there's no one to care.
I spend the rest of my wait deep in my books and my journal. I don't dare take my eyes off the pages or lose my focus even for a moment. I can't take anything else right now.
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