Darren chuckled at the Florida postcard- he remembered his visit to Orlando when he was younger, with his cousins. The most magical place on earth, supposedly, and yet- he'd eaten a dragon's heart, he'd talked to animals, including an impossible shark. Magic didn't belong in just one place, he supposed, as he turned over the postcard.
GRIM
If you have ever ridden one of the Doom Buggies through this particular ride, then you’ve passed within a few dozen feet of this ghost. When you pass the ballroom chamber, that is where the sole authentic ghost resides. All you need to do is not to look for it. Simply let your gaze sweep across the interior, but then- there! In the corner of your eye- that flash- that glimpse of a mournful visage. That’s her. Imagination. Killed off in the very place where she was born, to the parentage of Innovation and Inspiration.
Scoff if you like. You’re confused, obviously. Surely, you argue, Disney still produces new works and displays and rides, showcases of imagination. The confusion comes from the continued presence of Imagination’s brother, Creativity. Disney continues to create, but there is very little Imagination in these new products. Just the ghost . . . an echo, a dissipating image.
Who brought about the death of Imagination? There is no person to point the finger at. How can you point the finger at a million people at once? How can you find motive within the myriad thoughts and desires of the thousands upon thousands of daily visitors to the Disney resorts? Disney is a business, after all. Disney serves the people, and the people no longer want to imagine. They want gratification, to be fed entertainment, and to believe it is great entertainment simply because it is labeled as such.
Imagination knew her death was coming. It was no swift departure from the prismatic excitement of existence. Rather it was the agonizing fade of her life energy, the slow bleeding out of her soul. Oh, how the ache of mediocrity and the pain of simulation being negated by mindless generic stuff created without thoughtfulness must have torn at Imagination’s very center. The debilitating, crippling feeling of helplessness in the face of the collective disinterest of visitors placated by imagery and sensory input without dimension, without meaning, without soul.
And so there she resides, trapped within one of the last places where she once danced upon feet made light by ideas, dreams, visions, possibilities. Where the projected images of strategically lighted animatronic figures now whirl about on calibrated tracks. Endless repetition, without new pathways. Without imagination.
Okay, I lied. Her ghost doesn’t reside inside a specific amusement ride at a specific family-oriented resort. It resides within a much larger domicile. The death of Imagination fills the dusty interior of our collective mind potential. Put down these remotes. Turn off your mobile devices, the screens that constantly illuminate your eyes. Open a book. Sit down at an outdoor café table, buy yourself a drink, and buy another for humanity, and see who sits at your table to partake, to talk, to converse, to imagine.
What is dead can be resurrected. All it takes is an idea. A spark. A spirit known as Imagination.
No comments:
Post a Comment