Florida, et al.

(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.