Two Star Wars stormtroopers and an imperial general climbed out of their hatchback and headed for the edge of the park. A Jeep pulled into a parking spot by the corner and a bounty hunter leaned his jet pack against a parking meter while he put on the rest of his gear, assisted by a woman in a purple shirt. “It’s not Boba Fett,” my husband reassured me, once I alerted him to the situation. “The colors are wrong.”
The day before, I started reading Neil Gaimon’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane*. I was having a little difficulty separating fantasy from reality. Now it looked like a sand person** was heading for the Mississippi. Could that be right? There is sand along the river, of course, but the habitat seemed wrong. Do you even have habitat ranges when it comes to sentient species?
It occurs to me that there is no reason for me to remain in agreed-upon reality. Why not – like a character in a Douglas Adams story – hop off whatever it is that well-balanced people are supposed to be balancing upon?
That would be a fresh start.
* The Ocean at the End of the Lane is one of those books that reminds me why I like reading fantasy – very Realismo mágico (which I think of in Spanish because I first bumped into it in a Spanish literature class in college, but have linked to in English because it’s less work).
** Tusken Raider, if you prefer.
Ralph climbed down under the bridge to either (a) take photos or (b) get sucked into an alternate reality and (c) discovered that these characters were gathering in order to take still photos to accompany a fanfiction piece because (d) I am not the only one ready to escape reality.