You wake up. You impulsively decide to visit the museum today. You wear your hat in case it rains. You read Carl Sagan on the subway. You get to the museum. You think about buying a knish outside. You gag. So much for that idea.
You go inside. You buy your ticket and wander, avoiding the space exhibits at first. You see African Peoples and Birds of the World. You find their false-aliveness both intriguing and depressing. You make your way downstairs to the Hall of Human Origins. On the way down you nearly trip over a child who stops suddenly on the stairs, playing some game of his own invention and understanding. Your heart pounds, but you both avoid injury and serious embarrassment.
The stuffed chimps, so eerily lifelike in posture, need dusting. The human skeletons seem more at home in their surroundings. They stand straight, relaxed, grinning, unassuming. No attempt has been made to make them appear anything other than what they are. Dead. Inert. On display.
You breeze through the Hall of New York State Environment and wonder why no matter where you are the phrase "local wildlife" calls up a feeling of excruciating boredom. You wonder if the African Peoples are as jaded by lions as you are by chipmunks.
Your musings are suddenly halted by a massive tree, or rather, a massive fossilized slice of an even massive-er tree. You read that it started growing around the year 500 and was felled in 1891. In the midst of your awe you wonder why it was cut down. You can't help but feel sad. But it's a beautiful fossil.
You wander lazily through the Hall of Biodiversity, enjoying and feeling a bit sorry for the taxidermy in the Endangered Species display. You get to the Hall of Ocean Life, your goal since Human Origins, just in time for them to close it down for some fancy event. Frustrated, you finally give in to the pull of the Center for Earth and Space. That's really why you came, after all.
You walk slowly, breathe deeply, trying to keep calm and composed. You learn that you weigh 8,573 billion kgs on a neutron star, and 9.98 kgs on the moon. You watch an outdated video about the launch of an infra-red telescope and wonder how all that panned out. You listen to the vibrations of the sun sped up 40,000 times to be within the range of human hearing. The exhibits are slightly disappointing, the information frustratingly limited, but your heart leaps with barely contained childlike elation. You learn about the scale of the largest and tiniest things in the universe and take a picture of a life-size model of the human brain. You watch a video about the attempts to photograph planets in other star systems and you suddenly want to help. You wonder what happened to your childhood dream of becoming an astronaut, a scientist, a stargazer. You wonder how you ended up where you are now: directionless, an "artist," trapped in narcissistic adolescence, contributing nothing to the world.
You consider again the possibility of going back to school, focusing on physics, mathematics, and astronomy. Spending the rest of your life creating mathematical models of the universe, contemplating the nature of time, discovering new stars and planets… But you stubbornly reject the idea. You HATE school. Your passion for learning only resurfaced after you turned your back on formal education forever.
You wonder how the hell you'll get a job doing anything remotely stimulating.
You watch a short movie about the Big Bang, narrated by Liam Neeson. You exit the theater and walk down a spiraling ramp representing the complete history of time. Each step covers approximately 100 million years. The entirety of human existence is represented by a hairline at the base of the ramp. Perhaps the meaninglessness of your own life isn't such a disappointment after all.
As you move on to the Saurischian Dinosaurs you realize that this place… this is your childhood's favorite place. Everything about it; even the creepy stuffed dead animals, the boring local wildlife, and the overpriced gift shops; it's everything your 11 year-old heart could desire. The only thing missing is ballet.
You take pictures of the dinosaurs and think, not for the first time today, that you'd like your remains to be put on display in this museum. That will be your immortality. Perhaps your body will last long enough to serve as an example of primitive humanity for a more evolved future race.
In keeping with the theme of childhood revisitation, the next hall brings you face to face with your 11 year-old self's worst nightmares. Three terrifying shark-like beasts leer at you from the ceiling. You wonder what it is that makes shark teeth so much more chilling than dinosaur teeth or saber-tooth tiger teeth. You backtrack through the Hall of Advanced Mammals and peripherally notice someone staring at your ass. Awkward.
You find yourself in front of a museum cafe and wonder if you can eat. The thought of food still seems… difficult. You worry, then give up.
On your way out you visit the Primates. Some of the lemurs seem… old. Suddenly the thought strikes you, how deeply unnerving this place must be at night. You decide it's time to go.
Your journey to the exit is long and harrowing. The place is like a maze anyway, but whatever the gala/party/thing was that took over Ocean Life has also commandeered the entrance hall off Central Park West. You know there must be other exits, but that's the only one you've ever used. You try not to panic. This is no time for claustrophobia, they wouldn't close the ONLY exit before emptying the museum of its tourists. You follow exit signs that appear to lead deeper and deeper into the museum. You're convinced the signs are lying to you, some kind of sick joke. But soon you see glass doors ahead, the green of outside shining through them.
You need tea. Now.
* * * * *
Your favorite table in your favorite tea shop is occupied. You freeze, you pace, you stop, your heart pounds, you think-- but no. You're completely incapacitated by indecision. You walk.
You buy a smoothie. Halfway through it you feel sick. You want to go back to the tea shop, but now you have this damn smoothie. And you have to finish the fucking smoothie. Your stomach tightens and lurches. You just want to sit somewhere and read. Instead you walk. You choke down the rest of the smoothie while ogling a $30 Special Edition CD of Michael Jackson's Thriller. You wonder who would waste $30 on a CD, no matter how Special. The resident record store cat looks like it could eat you in three big bites. And would. You leave the record store quietly.
Your table is free. The waitress is friendly. You get your tea. It is perfectly brewed and deliciously hot. You inhale the fragrant steam and try to relax. You sip slowly. You want this tea to last.
You read your book. You can't focus. You're tired. The man at the table behind you is staring, you can feel it. But you will enjoy your tea. You will enjoy your book. You are determined.
You need to pee. You stand up. As you're hiding your purse under your jacket the man at the table behind you gets up and goes into the tea shop's one and only bathroom. You watch him as he goes. He avoids eye contact. You sit back down and try not to wiggle like a 3 year-old. Damn caffeinated tea. This man is obviously out to get you. You wonder what you've done to offend him. You wonder why the world is so cruel.
You hear the flush and repeat your purse-concealing ritual. The door opens, the man comes out and resumes his seat. You enter the restroom, cautiously sniffing. All clear.
The rest of your tea, your book, the subway ride home, all goes smoothly, aside from the inexplicable physiological panic enflaming every nerve in your body. You think maybe you should have gone with herbal tea instead. You start dramatically at small noises. Damn caffeine.
You get home. You unlock your door, lock it again behind you. You put down your bag, drop your keys on a shelf, hang your hat and jacket, remove your shoes. You lay down in your bed. Your stomach clenches around the smoothie you imagine is still there. You heave, but can't vomit, so you sob instead. Anxiety courses through your body until you exhaust yourself and fall asleep, curled around your pillow. You dream about cold-eyed, murderous sharks.
It was a good day.
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