(Some writing from a few years back after a trip to DisneyLand)
The observation of small things seems to be my Muse and my
chosen lot in life. When the kids were very young I would
watch them crouch down and study the world from just a few
inches away. At this height the distinctions of man recede
and the geography of human events fades into a fractal
fog. As adults, we often say that we should take a step
back, look at the big picture, see the context, get
perspective. But maybe our true nature is more
introspective, trapped as we are inside our heads with our
thoughts, like minnows in clay. Maybe the view from down
deep and up close reveals more than it hides and lays bare
the essentials of our life on Earth. When you figure it out
let me know.
Florida
——-
I find Florida both attractive and ugly, as if the little
Floridium molecules have positive and negative charges
arrayed uniformly about a dense Sunkist nucleus. The
weather is certainly great with lots of tropical sun to
warm, if not the actual cockles of ones heart, then at
least one’s epidermal layer. But that same sun bakes down on
a land so flat that the *horizon* is by law identified on
all Florida maps, ostensibly to prevent unwary tourists,
eyes glazed from parallax fatigued, from going over the
horizon into the Bermuda Triangle or other sinister
geometric shape.
The summer season brings to Florida the great game of
cyclonic bowling, with large waves of low pressure sliding
off the African Coast, heading west into warm tropical
waters, where they vacation on sunny beaches, drink too
much tequila and slink home for a sound thrashing. The
Weather Channel, that Sage of meteorological
wisdom, noted that a recent African hurricane engine was
derailed by excessive Saharan Dust infusing into the
potential cyclones. Saharan Dust. Who knew? Of course
the next year the Gods of Irony, Lenny and Hershel, simply had
Hurricanes spring full grown in the Caribbean in an
attempt to re-establish the Law of Conservation of
Dervishes.
Tired
—–
Self-proclaimed observer of the human condition that I am,
I have noticed that some days are like a slowly leaking
tire–you start out fast and sleek and with a minimum of
friction, but as the day wears on the concealed and crafty
nail pierces your protective layers. The pressure drops,
the curves flatten and your co-workers ask you if you
drive a gray Camry. Of course it could be worse: the
Camry (and you) could have been obliterated by the chance
meteor or swallowed by a hungry sinkhole, so in the
pantheon of bad things a flat is a relatively minor
tragedy. Still, the unexpected and strangely personal
nature of a flat tire somehow carries an undeserved misery
coefficient that rivals more global cataclysms. It seems so
*unjust* that one moment you have a perfectly round and
productive tire, and the next you have something that is
nearly useless in a world full of friction.
Fortunately there are places that you can take your
wounded vehicle, places that focus entirely on tires.
The place I use is called Just Tires, indicating an open
admission that tires intrinsically occupy a higher
spot on the spare parts food chain. It is one of the
great mysteries of nature that the lowly nail, an object
so devoid of expression that it, may, in fact, be inanimate,
can bring down the majestic tire. Just like War of the
Worlds — without Tom Cruise.
Disneylandia
————
There is something slightly sinister in Disney’s almost
obsessive desire to be family oriented. Every square inch
screams that we should be happy, smiling and well-
adjusted. The phone system declares that everyone should
have a “magical” day. While I agree, I don’t want to be
reminded of it constantly as if in preparation for some sort
of happiness examination.
On the other hand I do appreciate that nearly all forms of
dirt, insects, and other disturbing physical elements have
been erased from view. Though surrounded by lakes, not a
single mosquito hovers in the still, humid air. In the
wee hours of the morning I speculate that armies of
smiling Disney analysts roam the well-lit pathways,
cleaning away unsightly detritus with tiny Mickey Mouse
toothbrushes. The squirrels have been trained to sing
Disney favorites in a Mickey-inspired falsetto and will
don top hats for a small fee.
My overall impression is that considerable amounts of
money may be involved with this whole irrepressibly
leering enterprise. In fact that may the entire point, a
conclusion Matthew would classify as, “Well, duh”, proving
yet again that my goal in life is to remain forever surprised
by the obvious.
What to make of all this then? I would never be
accused emulating Angus, the Norse god of Gaiety,
nor am I a completely cynical little homunculus, yet I find
the contrived and simpering smiles of Disney to ring
false, no matter how polished the mirror or powerful the
lens. The Disneyland’s of the world are not bad
places, but they should limit themselves to fun and
amusement and not insist on showing us how to think and
feel and live. I do not believe that true happiness will
arrive in the distracting gleam of such a profitable
infomercial. Real joy is in us already, in the crouching
angels of our soul, ready to make each new day as magical as
the last.
whoisfenton 