Good ole Walt, what was he thinkin’ when he decided to enter the minds of children? Did he think that he was doing them a favor? Readying them for lifelong suffering at the hands of masters? A Utopian, that one, a special breed, a builder-with-vision. The landscape of America was never the same; heretofore spread a brand of dissonance called FUN.
And fun spelled backwards is NUF. Or how to know when enough is enough?
So what does this all mean? Scratch it. Stop looking for meanings. Get in there, boy, feel. Something wicked coming this way. Something like a freight train, loaded with the wishes of little boys and girls. Where’s it heading? Where’s it going? I smell smoke, and ash. A chorus is singing some verse:
Tame like a cruise ship
Tame like a shopping mall
Tame like an amusement park
I tell myself to stop making sense of it, but it’s no good, the mind runs on, trying to make connections, concepts, schemes, programs, conspiracies…
Is this what it is like to be the architect of others thoughts? To place into the very architecture of the world, ideas, that are there to be grasped, unconsciously, by the masses? Either I’m not comfortable with this role, or too comfortable with it.
I’m itching, scratching, scrambling for a thread that shows itself in this Kidult version of reality. Just a sour puss? Hardly. No, these are the mountains that men die on. Mountains as high as ideals, as high as IDEAS.
Hey, stay calm, just buckle up, and we’ll take you for a slow, languorous ride—novel, isn’t it? We just built it last season. Spared no expense. Check out the rubber bumpers.
Is it Novel? Or is it a gateway into a way-of-being, that makes the world into an amusement. Amusement. Amusing. Amuse.
A—MUSE or (NOT)INSPIRATION.
Get that woo-woo stuff out of here, you armchair religionist. Grab something from the vending machine, and cool down. No use getting hot in here, can’t you see, the walls are designed to dissipate the heat. It’s new tech; keeps you cool even on the hottest days of the year. Why the frown? Lets have some fun, blow off some steam.
There’s no more time for fun. Enough is enough is enough. I can’t just go along with it. Won’t go along with it. Bring back the heat. Let’s put some dents in these walls, and summon all the power of Summer; yes, leaping up in the air Fuzon, seizes the August heat-bolt, and hurls it down at the shiny, cool dome of the Salesmen.
POP. A splatter of skull, bloodless . Dried years ago, when the soul shriveled under the weight of all the good times. This one was like a piñata. All sweets raining out. No bitters. Not even salt. Not a moment’s pause. A ceaseless life of running away from the cracks. Energy, and yet, all matter, an expert at mattering: “Matter of fact” “Serious Matters” “Whats the Matter” “Internal Matters” “Matter of Convenience,” all spoken through large gulps of air, unprocessed, repeated, as though original: yes, mattering incessantly out in the world. And what mattered most? Growth, expansion, potential, all fine, fine things that really matter. And an atomic smile sourced from the anxiety of death. Only the best, greatest, good life possible.
Coming Down To Earth 