For those of you who haven't been introduced to Pillowfight Fairy yet, she's not quite five, going on not quite seventeen. She has developed a certain self-consciousness about her artistic and literary creations, not wanting her parents or anyone else to see what she's doing until she has completed it to her satisfaction. (And even then she might not want to let you see it. As I said: going on seventeen.)
Well, here's the story she created this morning:
What am I, her father, to make of this? Just listen to the nihilism, the irony, the grinding hopelessness bearly concealed beneath that bouncy exterior? Who can escape the fear inherent in the idea of waiting, waiting at the bus stop, without one's bat, well after midnight*? Who can escape the malicous repression contained in the imperative, "NOW SiT AND SiT All of YOU"? Who can escape the echoes of the horrible realization of King David, or even of Oedipus Rex, that "I... i am THE BOY" and the anonymous, androgynous stick figure's dehumanized lament of "I AM iT I AM"? What answer can anyone give to the one who realizes there's no answer to the question of "WHo I AM AT All". And the other figure at the bottom of a deep, deep well filled with some unidentified but probably nasty red stuff--does it not draw upon the worst nightmares we all share, of a horrible knowledge that there is no escape?
And to top it off, we have "NO TuB TO PlAy". How very sad.
Well, we either have a budding Judy Blume here, or a Maya Angelou, or even--God forbid--a Vladimir Nabokov. Where did we go wrong?
*Note that that's a waning crescent moon low on the horizon, indicating sometime after midnight, but before sunrise.