This is not how I wanted to start this, but I feel like you should know that I rubbed my mascara-laden eyes and now my hand looks like Dumbledore’s dead, black fingers in book six.
I so rarely wear makeup that I forget about it until it itches and I inevitably ruin it. There is a metaphor there but my eyes are tired and heavy with smear, and I can’t get to it. My face bears a striking resemblance to Beetlejuice at the moment, which is taking all of my concentration. And my soul, if you believe in the hype.
My friend Vanessa and I went hiking a few months ago with her son, Jonah. He was very interested in a small stone labyrinth at the top of the mountain, specifically in “making the art better.” This mostly consisted of rearranging some errant pebbles and a lot of high kicks, but to his credit, it did seem to improve things.
“What happens when you die, Mommy?” Jonah asked, mid-kick.
“Well, what do you think happens?” Vanessa employed the same tactic as my parents when confronted about Santa Claus. I, not quite as seamlessly, also high-kicked in the labyrinth.
“Hmm. I think that’s it, you’re dirt,” said Jonah. He resumed humming the refrain of the song he had sung on repeat on the way up the mountain.
I wish more of my daily conversations were both this deep and this simple, if not quite this creepy on account of the humming.
What kind of other world would you want to live in?
Which version of death scares you the least?
Why does the Buzzfeed Muppet quiz keep giving me Miss Piggy when this is clearly not accurate?
What is worse, and what is more of an immediate threat - Orwell’s 1984 or Huxley’s Brave New World?
Why did we make plastic and why didn’t we see how bad it could be?
How do you make the art better in the labyrinth?
Answers are not enough. I want to live in these questions for a while. I want to know the information on all sides - to surround a thing and take it down. Ruin it.
At the Universal Studios tour on Wednesday, they took us through some of the famous sets from Universal shows and movies. Immediately behind the iconic Bates Motel in all its desolate glory, towered the glittery, snowy, domed houses of Whoville.
I suppose you can’t want to live in a world of magic and at the same time learn illusory tricks. You’ve either committed to destruction or fantasy. But please excuse me while I hum Harry Potter theme music on repeat to myself and try to sleep.