An overgrown baby sits in a supermarket trolley. Long legs hang from an ill-fitting baby seat; a pacifier plugged firmly into his mouth. He cannot speak; cannot question nor protest; complain; request; reason; discuss. He can speak no evil.
His hands hold a portable DVD player. It plays a cartoon. Over-sized ear phones are rammed into his delicate ears. He can not respond to external noise; he is deaf to its calling. His world is insular, one in which only he can hear and understand.
Upon his machine, the action plays. To me the actions are nonsense without sound, but the eyes of the overgrown baby are fixated upon the screen, captivated by a sequence he has undoubtedly witnessed a million times over. He sees none who surround him. We move in his periphery like trees on a windy day; invisible like a breeze.
His parent drifts down an aisle, busy gathering necessary objects and foodstuffs from the shelves. His child is set up, armed and occupied so as not to bother anyone....and yet I am bothered, though for reasons the parent might not expect.
4th Nov. 2011