The Prisoner

The origin of this post has many roots. In the course of providing much metallic and musical moving pictures, maddeningly missing, (okay, I'll stop) a gross oversight, has been the legendary Iron Maiden. But which song?

This one!

Why? First, the monstrous, Zeppelinesque riff crushes. Second, the inspiration for the song, the cult teevee program, The Prisoner, is as wonderful as its theme is disturbing, and closer to reality than it was when the show originally aired way back in the Decade of the Filthy Hippie. Third, because I care about you dudes and chicks, I stumbled across the excellent version that you watched -- you fucking better have, I watch your non-metal stuff -- that interspersed the classic Hammersmith footage from 1982 with shots from the program. Why is this one better? Fewer shots of Bruce Dickinson's sartorial impersonation of the Festrunk Brothers. Shudder. Lastly, because I think it follows a stellar post (with the same title) by the inscrutable Scarlet W. Blue that was the predominant reason for the long-winded one you're reading right now.

I rarely do any family and/or parenting posts because it just isn't my gig. This one, concerning the joy of our youngest daughter at experiencing one of her loves, ballet, might be the only one I've done. Don't want to ruin the mystery behind the cartoon baseball cap with any touchy-feely shit. Anger, grimace, grumble, sulk, brood.

As is patently evident, I'm a big fan of the creative process and the resulting works that illuminate the human condition. Our youngest inherited my passion for music, our oldest for art. Unlike their old man, they're actually good at what they do. I imagine if we had a third, he or she would be into literature and poetry, but there is no way on The Flying Spaghetti Monster's not-as-green-as-she-used-to-be earth that we're going to have another whiny ass mouth to clothe and feed. Hades no.

Anyway, the point of this post, essentially a corollary to Scarlet's, is the experience by mom and/or pop with the typical modus operandi of the powers-that-be to frown upon those would dare to *gasp* have an imagination, to not toe the youthful party line. Those pesky things sure can get in the way of rote memorization and regurgitation of poorly-taught and understood truthiness, can't they. I count my lucky stars -- hey, I think one is headed this way. Oh, shit. -- that we haven't had to deal with anything that ridiculous. Yet. Our artist has, on more than one occasion, gotten into arguments with her art teacher about technique. She knows what the hell she is doing, so I imagine it's more of a 'yeah, I know we're practicing this, but this looks better' thing. When in doubt, defer to the creator. She understands what she wants. But given her penchant for exceedingly strange, obtuse, highly comical, disjointed, violent and bizarre creations and stories illustrated with her considerable talent -- that she no doubt does while in other classes; the smart ones are always fucking bored, aren't they -- I have long expected one of those letters that I imagine would go something like this:

Mr. and Mrs. Graves,

Your daughter frightens us with her dark moods and we think she may be into dark things and be formulating dark plans as we print out this form letter. We don't want to die. Please make her more vanilla and white bread and less Neapolitan topped by crumbled up cookie things with a whiskey chaser.

Sincerely,

Principal Bureaucrat

Well, Mr. PB (Mr. Pibb?) my wife and I both agree that there is far too little emphasis and support for the creative process in this American golden bronze papier-mâché age. I completely sympathize with your position that requires you to shape, to the best of your NCLB and military/industrial/entertainment complex-fueled ability, the future cubicle jockeys of the corporate world whose only task as an expendable automaton is to funnel their by-the-book education into the machine in order to increase the bottom line of those who already possess very large posteriors, but once, just once, show the tiniest fraction of a spinal column, stick out that chest, apply that stiff upper lip, and mellow out, man. Those that are different, that shuffle through life to the beat of a bohemian, scruffy drummer are the ones that drive the soul of humanity to greater heights.

Someday, after your ugly buildings of concrete and glass have long crumbled into dust, after your lack of not just funding, but place in the daily discourse, after your transgressions and material goods have been written off and thrown on the scrap heap, forgotten by your descendants, the monuments that remain, that move us to try new things, not push, but rip the envelope open -- a film, a book, a poem, a song, a novel approach to a scientific problem -- these will be the things that release the human experience from its quotidian cell. It's our duty as parents to make sure our kids never become prisoners of the increasingly omnipresent, stupefying bars closing before them day after day. There may indeed be a lock, but you can give them the key. We may all be classified as a number, but we don't have to live that way.