World Of Color

A little girl, arms crossed and tears streaming down her face, sits in the back seat of her Aunt and Uncle’s car and stares out the window: “Melanie was not, as her Aunt surmised, upset because she didn’t get a souvenir before leaving the Magic Kingdom. Rather, she was upset because (and this was not something she could articulate, not yet) she was leaving a highly-controlled environment, one where people moved through space in an orderly fashion; where garbage was almost completely invisible; and where everyone, including her normally belligerent relatives-slash-guardians, spoke kindly to her. Now she was headed back home, where chaos reigned; where columns of random clutter and stacked piles of crusty, chipped Fiestaware seemed to mirror the malformed internal states of those who made them; and where every word spoken seemed to be freighted with explosives and hurled at her with maximum intent to harm. As the Matterhorn (backed by a sunset so cartoon colorful one could be forgiven for thinking it was nothing more than another special effect generated by a team of Imagineers) receded in the distance Melanie told herself that the next time she went to Disneyland she would escape while in the Haunted House. She knew there was a system of tunnels and underground roads beneath the park, and while she didn’t know how long she could last on her own, she knew with the help of strategically pilfered sips from water fountains and handfuls of stray popcorn gleaned from the immaculate streets and walkways she could last long enough. At some point everyone who was looking for her would have to give up, and then she would be free to live in the place that to her was the dream the world had about itself at night, the dream that lingered long past morning and seemed to become more and more important the faster it faded, the dream that only served to reinforce the idea that everything not inside the gates of Walt’s Utopia was false, that waking up was a nightmare in reverse.”

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