Alice in Wonderland is probably one of the most fucked up children’s movies I’ve ever seen. Actually, Bambi is pretty bad, too. And Dumbo. It was also recently brought to my attention that Fantasia is hella racist. Basically if I had been a locked-away homeschool kid who learned the facts of life from early Disney movies, I would have been educated on the idea that you should kill or incarcerate baby mamas, refer to every ethnicity and race by its most offensive terms and then be like, “HAHA IT’S ENDEARING, LET ME SHOW YOU WHY IN CARTOON FORM,” and then go trip on some acid in a field.
Anyway. I appreciate Alice in Wonderland as an adult, however. And truth be told, I liked it as a child, in a weird, horrifying way. Alice in Wonderland makes me think of an alternative dimension of eternal spring. I love the cabin fever that spring infects. It’s the only type of illness I ever hope to contract. Spring resurrects all my crazy ideas buried in the dead of winter when it is cold and dark, and the outside world is not welcoming.
I’m driven into frenzy by the outlandish, whether it’s farfetched schemes of exotic travel, or plans for out-of-this-world ambitious projects. None of it ever really meets fruition, but the excitement of possibility suffices in catapulting me into action to do . . . something . . . anything. My most inspired works and activities have more often than not been the happy “accidents” or “failures” of another thing I was trying to achieve. When the world is blue and bright, and vision is clearer, everything appears to be within range. And though this illusion paints me with kookiness in the eyes of those who perceive the situation otherwise, I like to consider something a very wide-mouthed and creepy cat said once:
“We’re all mad here.”
HAHA just kidding it’s only me.
Vintage sweater; Zara top; Mango pants and necklace; H&M hairclip; Vintage Manolo Blahnik heels.