October 8, 2012

adventures in wonderland.

they met on a sunday in june.

it was dusk, and she wore a blue dress that made her eyes bloom.

he was in a suit, wearing it well.
for the first hour of their meet-cute, she couldn't remember his name. not that she thought it was something different, she literally could not find the name she'd been told he owned. it was nowhere in her cranial filing cabinet, and that was frustrating. not because she was in love with him and wanted to sketch it in bubble letters, no. but because she found herself needing to use it.

they sat on grass. it wasn't comfortable or romantic. it was grass.

he was the cheshire cat: wonderful and intriguing. she wouldn't say he preyed on young alices like her, but a strong case could be made for the fact that he did love it when they agreed to follow him.

she did that. she followed him.
on accident, really, but she did have things to say.
things to say in rich, unabashed honesty.
but he was fond only of the dress that fell upon her shoulders, putting innocence to the face he only halfheartedly appreciated.
her name was alice, and the cheshire cat, well, he didn't want her for much other than her dress, and the way that she fit inside it.

alice was in could-have-been with the cheshire cat. she sometimes caught herself watching tennis on television, and wimbledon when it was on, but never thought she'd catch herself in could-have-been with a figure so cryptic, he may as well have been lewis carroll, himself. in fact, she may as well have been fictionally developing, becoming, if you will, in a hell much less certain than even wonderland.
and the worst part of it all?
this man, a tomcat of sorts, has since claimed to be in is-going-to-be with another little girl in a different dress, one that can only be assumed accentuates character traits beyond rosy cheeks and blue eyes. alice knows this because the cheshire cat told her. and he told her because she asked him to. and she asked him to because she didn't want it to be true. and she didn't want it to be true because she believed in magic. and she believed in magic because he kissed her dimple. and that was plenty, believe me.
i mean, her.
believe her.
well, anyway.
he disappeared, the way cheshire cats are known for doing, taking is-going-to-be with him, and leaving the pretty girl in the blue dress behind, along with the hell she'd come to know so well.

alice sat down in the grass, alone.
it wasn't comfortable, or romantic. it was grass.

she thought about how she'd gotten to that point, carefully examining her backtracks, and how she had gotten more lost than she'd already been when all of a sudden, alice remembered her entrance to wonderland, and it became so clear: 

"would you tell me, please, which way i ought to go from here?" asked alice.
"that depends a good deal on where you want to go," said the cat.
"i don't much care where," said alice.
"then it doesn't matter which way you go," the cat said. 

and that was when alice picked up her wit, and learned never to follow the cat, no matter the way he looked in a grey suit. she understood that he may show up, though previously appearing invisible, yes. he may reappear upon her meeting of the mad hatter--a character whom she particularly adored. she knew that she'd beg to get out of wonderland when tea was served that she wasn't fond of, or when she realized her demons in the queen of hearts. for now, though, she was in a place of whimsy, a place she might not be able to journey to years from now, a place she wanted to be, and, well, maybe she wasn't ready to leave, after all. so, she decided to paint the roses red, irresponsibly, until the grass was comfortable. and conditionally romantic, depending on who chose to sit there beside her.
and believe her when she says that it will never again be the cheshire cat.
because today in wonderland, she'd forgotten his name.
and she told me it was blissful. 

*excerpt and concept taken from alice's adventures in wonderland, by lewis carroll.
as for the rest of it, i'm sure it would do you well to read between the lines.  


  1. Savory motifs, my love.
    Ambiguity at its finest, as always.


i like words. and you. write me a few?