Escape

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 3, 2024

“Where are you? Where am I? When are we gonna escape?

Say now, say now, say now, say now, say now…”

From “Don’t Let Me Fall Behind” — Jukebox the Ghost

I wake up floating on a pool float as the sun rises, birds chirping. There’s a towel over me. I’m confused how I got here. Have I been sleeping on this pool float all night? But I know where I am. It’s the outgrown pool of my childhood home. I should have known at this point, I was waking within a dream. It’s been many years since I’ve been in that pool.

Then, I see my mom on the deck. I ask her if I slept there all night and why didn’t anyone wake me up. She said I just looked so comfortable. Then, my nephew, Blaise (3), jumps in the pool. At first, I’m nervous because he is so young and isn’t wearing his floaties. So I swim to him to grab him, but instead he swims to me and says, “don’t worry, Aunt Wori, I’m really good at swimming now.” And he is. He just swims around the pool. With his blond hair wet and plastered to his face, he looks just like my brother to me.

On the deck, I see a giant spider that’s glowing all sorts of colors. At this point, I start to suspect I’m dreaming. Blaise wasn’t even born when my parents owned this house. There are no spiders in nature that change colors and glow like they have LED lights as legs (at least I hope so).

When I wake up to the real world, if this even is the real world, it’s time for a quick run, shower, and drive to Atlantic City where I’ll perform for a week at the Borgata. It’s a gig I’m always grateful for but, alas, a week in a casino can warp your view of  reality even more than a dream within a dream.

Viktor Frankl, author, psychologist, philosopher and Holocaust survivor said, “when a person can’t find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.” And while I wouldn’t say I disagree with him, I don’t condemn anyone for falling in love with escapism. One could argue that American modernism worships escapism even more than money. The average person worshiping actors instead of writers. Addicted to vape pens, alcohol, social media. Incessantly drawn to nudity. We love TV, theme parks, tokens of materialism and replaced our love of fellow humans with our love for our pets. But isn’t religion a form of escapism? Faith is a fantasy one hopes is real. Church is escapism. A mostly boring one at that, and one that shames you for human nature, which is why it’s rejected more and more. If there’s a creator, let Her judge me for this fucked up reality She put us in.

Embrace escapism, I say, but within reason. Run away if you’d like but remember you cannot escape your own meat membrane. Try your best not to run from hope. That torturous siren. Is hope escapism too? By Zeus, I hope not.

The great tragedy of many writers is that once they’ve finally gained the courage to believe in themselves, they lose faith in the world. Perhaps, I often fear, rightfully so. Do we accept fate with a “so be it” attitude, a certain apathy, or do swing our swords wildly, even if our helmets are covering our eyes so we do not see what we are swinging at?

Creatives are crazy. This I’m okay with. To be able to see the world in different ways has a price. It has been my fear, though, that if my inner child dies, along with her wistful and wonderful imagination, I hope I die along with her. That I’m not the one left behind, joining these soulless zombies, those going through the motions. I may not need to thrive in the American idea of “success,” but I do need some outlet for my colors to multiply, so that I’m not just another sepia dream… or nightmare.

I will not marry my anger, as too many people do. Be careful of these people. Allan Bloom put so eloquently, “anger proves man’s rationality while it obscures and endangers reason.” Losing my mind is something I always suspected would happen in time. Rarely have I found belonging in places and people. More often I found belonging in books, music and films. Escapism. Sure, it ends at the last chapter, note, or when the credits roll, but introverts so rarely find each other, given our nature. At least I can laugh at the world and myself. At least I have this gift. I’d rather be the Mad Hatter than the Queen of Hearts.

Time always shows us what we are, and then it erases us. What a joke.

What a joke it all is. This “reality.”