It was a warm Sunday morning, and I was staring at my glass of milk. I wasn't about to experience the first symptoms of insanity, but I wanted to do a crazy thing. An escape from the heatwave, with my backpack and plane tickets. The world was watching the happenings in Rio de Janeiro, but I was thinking of Torre Glacier, Chorrillo del Salto, and Monte Fitzroy instead. An ordered society could be awkward, even get crazy. So I would yearn to get away.
I saw my paperback copy of "Fortunately, the Milk", which was released a few years ago. Neil Gaiman's book reminded me of "Time Bandits", about an eleven-year-old boy's attempts to escape from reality. Not that I couldn't relate to him, but I would understand him. (His parents were obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses.) He was a keen photographer, who considered his Polaroid camera as his prized possession. Who would have thought that this instrument had powers? Six dwarves spilled out of his wardrobe one uneventful evening. They were working for the Supreme Being. They brought a map along with them, which would take the boy to a never-ending adventure. The Napoleonic War, the sinking of the RMS Titanic, a meeting with King Agamemnon.
Terry Gilliam was crazy to look at these historic events in a different light. It involved the loss of innocent lives, irreparable damages, and characters whom I didn't wish to live with. Adventure and imagination would go hand in hand, though. It could mean an open mind, and possibly a change of heart. A young boy could do it, but an adult may encounter difficulties. In this regard, Gilliam saw Big Brother. He even considered insomnia. Gaiman thought along the same line, but he opted for an outrageous look at what have been a normal day. Both Gilliam and Gaiman have the same sense of humor.
Before we were floating above ominous towers and disquieting castles
I glimpsed a calendar on the wall with a hot air balloon in it. I haven't picked up the dinosaur models and ponies on the floor. And I would be reminded of my brother's words last night. (I haven't returned his vampire books.) I almost forgot our holiday in Italy last year, where I vividly remembered the eerie panorama of Pompeii during the afternoon. And Mount Vesuvius towered above the ruins.
It happened to be the premise of "Fortunately, the Milk", where Gaiman might have recalled his childhood days. It must be a happy one, as the author thought of an eccentric father who traveled through time before he bought a bottle of milk for his two young children. The lactose might have triggered time traveling, as he ended up in a sea swarming with piranhas. And then the fire god demanding his bottle of milk. He also had a run-in with vampires, whose fangs gnashed at the mention of breakfast.
My mother once scolded me for looking at the illustrations (while having breakfast). I might be a strange fellow, as Skottie Young's outlandish drawings made me want to ask for more bacon. I wouldn't say that breakfast wouldn't be the same after reading Gaiman's book. I rather looked forward to the day, even if it meant long hours of studying. I could imagine the eccentric father going back to reading the newspaper, with a smirk on his face.
