Old photographs wrinkle in cardboard boxes reminding us of that dream. Climbing bridges or standing in front of a tree – Mom snaps a slapped smile almost robotic-ally given each time it hears the word, “cheese.” Not all mice eat cheese nor do all of them get caught in their traps. Jerry is smarter than Tom and my home taught me that this could be possible. Fatigue is rare, even at nightfall when the lights pound next to the stars signaling our departure.
My home has always been different than others. Not a big house: four bedrooms, two bath, kitchen, garage. I did live in one of those once though, but it wasn’t my home. Mine isn’t in my quote-on-quote hometown and there isn’t a blanket there that Grandma knitted for me when I was two.
I can travel to many countries at my home. I can eat any food I wish and dance with cowboys. I’ve been to the Prehistoric Age and the land of Tomorrow. Maybe it’s just a time shell on a little abandoned lake imprisoning me from the realities of mortgage and divorce. Maybe I’m not really a princess or a beautiful creature of the sea. Maybe pixie dust doesn’t really make me fly and if I tried I would bleed real blood and form real scars that say, “think practically.” But maybe there’s more to home than “can you turn the heat down,” brush your teeth, call it a night. And maybe Mister Tom Morrow is real.
I’m asleep on the transit authority (now called the “People Mover”) and I’m on top of the world. I find it hilarious that they changed the name to the People Mover; it’s almost ironic in it’s sarcasm that it’s simply all you do. This little blue box has moved me across my home all my life. There’s the castle, Mountain, inside the Mountain’s building, little city diorama, Space Ranger Spin, girl getting hair done, outside, circle back, and “let’s go around one more time.”
I’ve moved around in circles quite a bit seeing this house, this apartment, that dog, there’s my cousin – your turn to count, close my eyes and there are more boxes now. It’s never bothered me but I feel strange when people ask about my hometown. Where I’m from, really, isn’t a city, but maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this place – where the stars explode – can’t be my home.
I look down below at a family. The dad looks happy holding his two children and the mom is right beside, holding his hand. It’s picturesque really and almost cheesy. Not here, though. They seem to be apart of the canvas that paints this world. A kid runs around and people are staring at the sky, but its okay because they’re supposed to here. You’re supposed to be happy here: that’s the point.
I wonder what Mister Tom Morrow envisioned when he put together his “Tomorrowland” and knowing that this is just Walt behind a dream, do I really think this is all real? Is it really a place that exists or are we just extensions of his “great big beautiful tomorrow” riding around on the Carousel of Progress, stuck in a slumber of getting along with your family and feeling warm inside just in time for a snapshot. To me, this doesn’t have to be the Twilight Zone and I don’t have to drop a hundred feet to get a thrill. I can sit on the People Mover and watch my brother put his head on my mom’s shoulder and that’s all I need. This may be all one big dream and I’m stuck inside the confines of the Imagination of one man who had the biggest dreams of all, but in my case, I’m okay with the mouse getting the win in the end. Not every mouse gets stuck in his trap.