Hey People!Here's another sampling of my work from creative writing class. Some of you may find the setting familiar from our Oswego days. The assignment was to form a short story around a song that meant something to us. I chose "It's the end of the world as we know it" by REM. Come to think of it I should have picked "Kid Fears" by Indigo Girls or "Smells like team spirit" by Nirvana. Awww, Tyler days. Hope you like it!The first time I heard “it’s the end of the world as we know it” by REM, it was my freshman year of college and I was sitting outside the performing and visual arts building on campus, Tyler Hall. The music was coming from an open window of one of the painting studio on the second floor. I was mesmerized. I had never heard anything like that before and decided to investigate.
Up until that moment I was afraid to show my pimply face inside the building, let alone walk in, uninvited, into someone’s studio. Being a freshman, a computer nerd, a queer and a hick from cow tipping country I was more than little intimidate by all the raw talent that filled the building. But this new sound overwhelmed me and I wanted to know more.
As I laid my hand on the door my knees began shake. I could feel the energy as I touched the handle to open it. It was as if the place was alive. As weird as it sounds I could feel something grab a hold of my coat and pull me inside. I stumbled through door; I could hear the echoing of my footsteps in the massive atrium over the faint, sweet sound of a string quartet rehearsing somewhere in the building.
I had entered on the first floor. Above me were the studios where the visual art classes were held. Below me were the spaces, which housed the performing arts. On either side of me were the student and faculty art galleries. Both brimming with imaginative artwork the likes I would NEVER encounter at the local Farmer’s Museum or State Fair back home. A few feet in front of the gallery’s entrance were two staircases that curved down the lobby of the theatre just below me on the ground floor. I looked out in front of me, over the railing, above the lobby of the theatre. There I was nearly eye to eye a gigantic sculpture of a man made completely out of what looked like worn out leather. Blank faced, standing tall, hands on hips and feet firmly planted on the ground floor of the building.
It was as if he was the lone guardian of this magical place. I needed his permission to enter. I stared for a bit in awe of this “man” who shot up two floors and looked down upon newcomers as if to question whether they were worthy or not to enter. As I stood in from of him, it was almost as if I could feel his presence. I could feel he understood why I was there. He could feel the desire and respect I had for his domain. With the “giant man’s” permission I was off on my quest.
I quickly turned to my right and ran toward the art gallery. When I entered the gallery I saw to my left, a gallery attendant sitting at an old brown desk covered in scratches, dents and paint splatters. The paint splatters were mostly on the attendant actually. He was gangly, pale looking kid dressed in black from head to toe with exception of a glimmering silver rod shooting through his eyebrow. He was reading an ArtNews magazine when he spotted me standing next to him. His head turned and he gave me a look as if he was about to eat me alive.
“Welcome to the Tyler Gallery. How can I help you today?” He said in a disturbingly pleasant voice. It was almost like he was happy to see me?
“I’m looking for a way to the second floor?” I stuttered.
“Go out of here, turn right and it’s the third door on your left.” He said with a cheerful smile peeking through his black lipstick.
I thanked Count Dracula junior for his help and rushed out of the gallery. I made a sharp right and scurried down the hall, nearly missing the door to the second floor. Although I don’t know I could have missed it at all. It had a unique version of Edvard Munch’s The Scream painted on the outside of it in fluorescent pinks, greens and yellows with a twisted likeness of Cyndi Lauper where the screamer should be. I threw open the unusually heavy door and ran up two flights of stairs to the studio level. With each step I took the music I had heard outside started to get louder.
As I opened the second floor door I could hear the music even clearer. It was like it was calling to me, drawing me closer to it. Right. Left. Right. Which way? I looked at the wall across from the door; there was a painting of an old woman with a cat in her lap and a gun to her head. She was pointing! LEFT! I turned and took off down the hall. I passed room after room filled artists type creating brave new worlds using nothing but their imaginations and sweat. As I passed by each painting, each sculpture, each drawing I could hear the music getting even louder than before.
“It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.”
It did feel like it was the end of the world, as I knew it anyway. No more combines and manure. No more flannel and John Deere. No more country music and pick up trucks. I was on the edge of something new and exciting and totally frightening but I was ready.
As I reached the end of the corridor I heard the final lines of the song play and end abruptly. It was coming from the last door on the left. It had a large image of what looked like Jim Morrison’s face if you stood nose to nose to him painted on the outside of it. The door was opened slightly, so I took a couple of steps forward and peaked in. Inside I saw a painting and a man standing in front of the easel brushing paint on the canvas. He turned and our eye met. He smiled, walked toward me and slammed the down.
