Jones and I are standing on the sidewalk and I am asking him about his dream from the previous night.
What was it about, Jones?
Santa.
What was he doing?
He was bringing presents.
Did you get to open any?
Yes! There were chocolate eggs, and inside of them was apple juice!
This is what a child not yet four dreams of. Miracles of pleasure. This boy, wearing rain gear that looks like a yellow hazmat suit. Wearing hockey pants and helmet, a pair of astronaut gloves.
He is still magic. He can do anything, everything before him still unbroken and emerging. The world and all beyond it, a field of potential just waiting to be ignited. It’s as if his vitality commands it, as if life must bend toward him.
A skunk emerges from some shrubbery, it’s long claws exploring something on a patch of green.
Jones is fascinated by this creature. He kneels down, gets smaller, tries to become the animal.
I tell Jones of the skunk’s superpower.
Tell him that every living thing has a superpower. But Jones was born with this knowledge. He wants to know other things.
Daddy, what happens to orange pop when it grows up?
I don’t know, what do you think?
I think it lives in the sky and becomes the sun all around.
In this world, everything always turning into light.
As we were waiting, two people inside the exhibit started to pound desperately on the wall. The security guards manning the installation jumped into action and opened the door, and amidst a spill of balloons a guy and girl emerged, each one in a panic, shaking and pawing at themselves as if covered in worms.
Rachelle looked over at me, “You’re going to freak-out, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said quietly.
“It says right there on the wall that people with claustrophobia shouldn’t go in. You can’t see at all in there. It’s nothing but black balloons, and if you’re prone to anxiety, it might not be the best experience for you.”
“I’m not prone to anxiety,” I whispered.
“Pickle,” Rachelle answered, “you have sweat on your upper lip and your left eye is twitching, just like when you have a good hand in cards. Are you sure you want to go in?”
I went in, dissolving into the balloons.
The acoustics were muffled and you really couldn’t see anything but the latex exterior of the black balloons. Dislocating rather than threatening, it was still an uncomfortable feeling. I moved slowly about fanning the balloons away as best I could, but they immediately reconstituted around me as if trying to attach and feed–an assembly of jellyfish clustering. It was disorienting and as I inched along the perimeter the room became denser and hotter, the air feeling remote and less accessible. I had no idea how to get out or how large the room was and I was starting to feel a little anxious, and then I heard somebody softly crying. I thought it might be part of the exhibit, but I wasn’t sure.
“Is somebody crying?” I asked.
“I’m fine, “ a woman said, “sorry.”
I shuffled along the wall toward the voice, eventually coming into contact with somebody slumped to the floor.
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” she answered, “I’m okay, thanks. I’m not panicked or anything, just a little emotional. My mother died recently and whenever I was feeling lost, she was always there to help guide me, you know? It’s a silly thing, but this just brought her right back to me. I’m really fine and sorry for the little scene.”
And then I heard her get up and move off into the balloons.
