The clincher, the case closed, the consolidation of the concept that Walt Disney was here in the flesh sitting at a cafe table in his own magical kingdom was...
...Other people saw him too.
Oh, not the harried parents and zoned out foreigners. None of them presumably even knew the physical appearance of the founder of the empire whose streets they walked. Which was a sad reflection on them since his icon was dotted around the Disney demesne.
So many look, so few see.
But during Phil's constant visits, or pilgrimages, he had seen children especially run up to him, as to any other random adult, to be favored with a curt word or a fleeting smile. Walt seemed distracted. Not unfriendly, but distracted.
It was Phil's certain belief that when he returned from wherever it was he had been for so long Walt had returned a cryptomnesiac. Walt had suffered a head filled with new thoughts, unfamiliar in shape and texture. And yet if he could but realize, none of those thoughts were new. They weren't thoughts at all, they were memories.
He was becoming less and less so as the weeks went on, and in direct proportion to his anamnesis.
In fact, Phil thought time and time again, Disneyland itself was nothing if not one gigantic labyrinthine model of the man's mind. It was a testament in stone, anamnesis in both the Platonic and Christian senses made flesh.
Walt Disney's monumental aide memoire, a kind of reverse Ozymandias effect where its grandiosity had only increased after the end of his physical existence and his glory had only intensified.
Take, eat, Phil thought. This is my soda; this my souvenir. Buy this in memory of me.
Walt Disney cleared his throat, in annoyance. Several cafe patrons looked round at him. He smiled back at them until they turned back to their drinks. Then he fixed a glassy gaze on Phil.
7/23/2016 6:58:21 AM
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