Dumbo and the Dilemma of Dreams

The bond between an infant and her most beloved cartoon character is strong, my friends. Let us observe the story of one child, a child who felt most achingly the kinship between herself and a lovably big-eared elephant...

Once upon a Whittier house, in a VHS player that sat upon the old unused fireplace, there lived Dumbo. The elephant. Now, Dumbo was a poor soul, mocked and bruised for his ears, which were in monstrous proportion to his body. He existed in misery, for in his cassette-tape world, there was only 'repeat', and 'rewind', forcing him to live every humiliation and every scornful snicker over, and over, and over again...

The injustice was unbearable.

Fortunately for Dumbo, his primary observer (though he had no knowledge of her existence) felt his pain, watched his every hurt, and yearned to rescue the pitiable pachyderm. What decent soul in the world could not hope for Dumbo's salvation? Who could ignore the cries of the innocent?

The more desensitized of our world might, but certainly not this five-year-old! One day, as she replayed the painful story yet again, she had had enough.

"This must end!" she cried, determined. And so she hatched a plan.

Which involved wresting the cassette from its VHS cave, uncovering its hatch, and attempting to rescue poor Dumbo from his constantly-repeated life.

Unfortunately for Dumbo, the little heroine's mother was watching this epic feat and wondering which mental disorder her daughter had acquired. The cassette was gently restored to its home, and the child was sadly resigned to watching the horrors of Dumbo's life yet again.

Ah, youth.

****

Okay, so my days of attempting to rescue the more tragic of Disney's characters are over, but I'm pretty sure my empathy for the fictional has not. (By the way, after my selfless--albeit failed--mission to save Dumbo, my parents actually went to my uncle-who-is-a-counselor-for-people-with-mental-difficulties to make sure that I wasn't crazy. He assured them that I was fine, but I have my doubts...)

What is the purpose of story? Of characters? Of sculpting words into personalities, with whom we can either empathize or despise?

Along the course of my life, I've had various addictions to various stories, ranging anywhere from Harry Potter to my most current phase, the Naruto manga. These characters, as well as 'people' who come from my own mind, pop up on sketchbooks, Nutrition or Communications notes, and pretty much fill up my brain.

One thing I've noticed is that I never gravitate towards the more realistic stories. As much as I respect Tolstoy, I can't really see anyone doing fanart of Levin or Anna Karenina (though his vivid imagery is astounding). I don't know who else has this 'problem', but I can't keep my head, heart or hands away from fantastical popcorn books.

There is something about the almost-but-not-quite "reality" of speculative literature that makes the imagination explode. There is something about characters who one could so easily imagine (but never see) in real life living in that sort of world that whisks you off your common-sense and into the fictional dream of another's hand.

It makes me go "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH".

When does the emotional connection become dangerous?

There are so many things that I want to ask but can't, because this is just a blog, but what do you guys think? I have this sort of moral dilemma and questioning of my grounding in reality every few years or so, and so far I think I'm at a healthy level of insanity...

ARGH that was a lot of rambling. Maybe I should start speaking in third person to reduce the quanitities of "I"'s in these posts...:S