Feb 5, 2021
“`What day of the month is it?' he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear.
Alice considered a little, and then said `The fourth.'
`Two days wrong!' sighed the Hatter. `I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!' he added looking angrily at the March Hare.
`It was the best butter,' the March Hare meekly replied.”
I want to write a blog on Wednesdays but sometimes things happen that distract me. A big part of what distracts me is that I don’t have it developed as a habit yet. Even though it’s Friday today, I am writing...two days wrong.
I’m thinking about Rabbits today. White rabbits and March Hares. And frogs. Frogs with warriors riding on their backs. And fairies with wings. And, actually...wings. Wings in general. Wings on birds and wings on bats and on dragons, and gryphons and pigs. Yep. Wings on Pigs and on horses and fish, and on rabbits, and doubtless on people, and on boats and on... WHALES. Why not??
My actual word! Why frickin’ not?
I need to get out of here. Don’t you? Who wants to live in soul wrenching pain? Aside from my own personal grieving, this covid drivel is destroying everyone’s way of relating. It’s a slow whittling away of the soul. It’s an endurance exercise. My endurance ran out months ago.There’s a distinct melancholy in the air bordering on bereavement that’s hard to ignore or shake off consistently.
So I am turning to the Bard. Well, I’m turning to fiction and fantasy and whimsy and putting wings on everything I can think of that fits what I want to do with my art. My company is called Winged Motivation. Isn’t it? I’m remembering the joy of the unexpected. I’m looking at Pat Kazi’s art in my studio. It’s only a matter of time before I pull out some Edward Gorey. I’m reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland AGAIN.
Life doesn’t HAVE to be filled with sorrow. It’s really a matter of what I choose to focus on. When the real world lets me down, there’s always a fantasy land I can turn to. And when that world seems more brutal than I was hoping for, I remember that no matter how often, and with how much conviction the Queen bawled out, “Off with her head!” that in truth, “It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know.” AND when Alice asks about the sorrow of the obviously extremely bereaved Mock turtle, the gryphon informs her that “It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know.” Truth, wisdom and understanding granted to us from a gryphon, a WINGED gryphon.
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