lucid innocence...
Many a time in my simple childhood, I would wander across the simple road of 17th place in Lubbock, Texas. The street ended in a quandary of a cul-de-sac where the cars would come to turn around or get lost with no connection to any other city tributary. I would cross over from my grandparents domestic domicile to my uncle's place where my cousins would entertain me and I would be the courier of their entertainment. Tickle torture was most always involved while they fed me straight shots of Hershey's syrup.
When times of no time were available, I was sat in front of the oak boardered thing we used to call a television when TV's weighed close to or over 100 lb's and the color would come and go intermittently. I would camp out in front, while VCR was loaded, rewound, and played with Dumbo or Mickey's Jack and the Beanstalk or Little Mermaid. I was fascinated. I was unbelievably and undoubtedly fascinated. The story brought me in and sold me. I was in it. The first time Dumbo and his floppy flying ears came into my life, I could not finish. It was not going to happen. The tears were flying and apprehension was born due to the scowely ways of the dirty circus folk that were mistreating my new elephant friend. But soon to follow once I decided to invest into more, and Dumbo succeeded into making himself the hero on the big screen. One of my first plights into the animated heroism of Disney.
Today I sat watching Cinderella with cousins where my attention actually was more in-tune with the 30 lb flat screen than the little princesses of age two who were supposed to be entwined. Again, I was in it. I was sold. For some reason, I'm so fascinated by the beauty of innocence that can be found in the stories of ancient animation. It's prosaic of sorts. The barbecue was grilling and the other adults around me were engaged in conversations that dealt in utter domestication: wood floors, life insurance, and child rearing instructions; my only way out was in the verse of the beautiful Cinderella and her horrible step-sisters and her even more evil Stepmother--what a bitch.
I was listening to the radio the other and caught wind of a five year old girl in the Congo who was raped. Girls of her age have their innocence viciously ripped, torn, stolen away from them. Genocide and ethnic cleansing are the bastadly evils of the powerful. Innocence was no longer theirs. Eyes that will never catch the beauty of animation, or eyes that would never get to dream in vivid colors and stories; these girls had their feminine radiance stolen at age five. Five.
Once I die it will end...
Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy
When times of no time were available, I was sat in front of the oak boardered thing we used to call a television when TV's weighed close to or over 100 lb's and the color would come and go intermittently. I would camp out in front, while VCR was loaded, rewound, and played with Dumbo or Mickey's Jack and the Beanstalk or Little Mermaid. I was fascinated. I was unbelievably and undoubtedly fascinated. The story brought me in and sold me. I was in it. The first time Dumbo and his floppy flying ears came into my life, I could not finish. It was not going to happen. The tears were flying and apprehension was born due to the scowely ways of the dirty circus folk that were mistreating my new elephant friend. But soon to follow once I decided to invest into more, and Dumbo succeeded into making himself the hero on the big screen. One of my first plights into the animated heroism of Disney.
Today I sat watching Cinderella with cousins where my attention actually was more in-tune with the 30 lb flat screen than the little princesses of age two who were supposed to be entwined. Again, I was in it. I was sold. For some reason, I'm so fascinated by the beauty of innocence that can be found in the stories of ancient animation. It's prosaic of sorts. The barbecue was grilling and the other adults around me were engaged in conversations that dealt in utter domestication: wood floors, life insurance, and child rearing instructions; my only way out was in the verse of the beautiful Cinderella and her horrible step-sisters and her even more evil Stepmother--what a bitch.
I was listening to the radio the other and caught wind of a five year old girl in the Congo who was raped. Girls of her age have their innocence viciously ripped, torn, stolen away from them. Genocide and ethnic cleansing are the bastadly evils of the powerful. Innocence was no longer theirs. Eyes that will never catch the beauty of animation, or eyes that would never get to dream in vivid colors and stories; these girls had their feminine radiance stolen at age five. Five.
Once I die it will end...
Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy