The Escape Artist Chronicles
- Part 6 By: Gayla Walther


normal. what is normal? i know what it is....

i hear them speaking in spirals of light and dark, what i know is good and bad, not quite making clear and thorough points of view because of their youthful disadvantage. being young is a retardation. a disability to all those whose voices matter to one another though remain in a small space never expanding, exploring, or even being backed up by proof.

those forty-somethings, out there, not in here. talking and contradictorily acting blindly. those censorship board members, those critics, those pedophillic tv executives, and casting directors and wardrobe persons. and what very little wardrobe there is--pushin the envelope, ah yes. makin the big bucks for trash.

and the trash is what sells, it is normalized, in what we see, shaping our perceptions that lead to our values. tv, magazines, movies, music.

i feel bad for the people who will live for the next hundreds of years.

i want out. i want my eyes to smile and my head to float.

here is my world:

the buildings are beautiful and old fashioned and unique. and not one rises above the view of the sun set.

inside, the people look comfortable and content and stressless. they go home now at three o' clock, to thier kids and gardens and friends and music and art projects. they may watch tv for an hour to sit and relax, but on the tv there are animals playing and art being created and music going and people smiling. but not the sexual smiles and not the i-want-attention trashy art, and not the i-raped-my-mother-wanna-kill-you music.

people talk, and smile, and eat, and feel.

no one competes, ever.

they can watch the sun setting from the side walk. they don't have to wake up 'till nine, but most wake up at six because watching the sun rise is different everytime.

they go to work and get done what they can and smile and think about their children's smiles and words, and about their lover sleepping in the moonlight.

and about how life was so hopeless so little time ago.

and there's no strings. and they're not puppets.

my eyes drip and my head drowns.

and i write this down in my head and through my hands.

and i watch them still, the young, pouring out their frustrations so fast, and so limited. i can make logic of their words and broken thoughts and contradictions. i speak to them in my head, showing sense, awakening them, but they can't hear because they're on the screen and i am on my couch.

and my own youthful limitations remind me once again that all i can do is dream to escape.


To Part 7