Midnight is where the Day begins(partial fragment)

[partial journal page entry of a melancholic enthusiast found crumpled up and floating in the middle of a puddle amid a crowded street ]

Alice:    ‘What a funny watch!’  ‘It tells the day of the month, and doesn’t                         tell what o’clock it is!’
Hatter:  ‘Why should it?’  ‘Does YOUR watch tell you what year it is?’
Alice:      ‘Of course not,’  ‘but that’s because it stays the same year for such a                   long time together.’
Hatter:   ‘Which is just the case with MINE,’


May 15th, ____

…I know you, you anxiously driven thoughts.  I know that one can infatuate her with words.  I can totally apprehend how Richard III could overpower a woman who was his ennemi juré and change her into his lover mistress. I know that there is nothing that works so effectively on her as falsehood, a lie, when it is rendered with the fire of wild enthusiasm, with the poisonous thrill of lust.  I know it; she actually does not love such a person, she almost loathes him, but she becomes dizzy, intoxicated, she submits. It was as if an evil spirit wanted to possess me—these spiritual trials enervate, and one becomes weary of shrieking, weary of crying, weary of raging, if nothing comes of it.  It already dangled before me as deposit a presentiment of almost superhuman powers by which I would accomplish great things—in that way rescue my pride and save my honor.  Oh, it is a hard road, the transition of being larger than life in the power of seductive evil to being nothing, nothing whatsoever, less than nothing, and even less than nothing through the antecedent aberrations of my thought…


…I suppose I’m really like an Etch A Sketch that life plays with in order to see on me just how it might look.  Similarly, an artist too has a sketch to which he now shades a little here and from which he now erases a little there before and while his brushstrokes poeticize the canvas; similarly, the mathematician’s pencil drafts a calculation, crosses it out, and then makes a new calculation before he proceeds to finalize his proof.  And similarly, I am only a sketch, only a calculation…


…The Hatter got himself in trouble for ‘beating’ Time.   I often wonder if years later Alice inwardly never forgot his punishment.  I wonder if she began to fully realize how terribly tragic was his sentence.  I wonder then, if her sympathies for his plight might eventually become overwhelming to her and that she must visit him again—She had to find out if Time was truly justified with such a cruel imprisonment.   But then, what might Hatter reply back with to her questioning? How could Alice understand fully when the one that…

I don’t know you
And you don’t know the half of it
I had a starring role
I was the bad guy who walked out
They said be careful where you aim
‘Cause where you aim you just might hit
You can hold onto something so tight
You’ve already lost it

Dragging me down
That’s not the way you use to be
You can’t even remember
What I’m trying to forget

It was a dirty day
Dirty day…

You want explanations
Things I don’t even understand
If you need someone to blame
Hey, throw a rock in the air
You’re bound to hit someone guilty…

[Smudged-out/End of Page]

Tableau of Alice, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter at the tea party in ALICE IN WONDERLAND reproduced from THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LEWIS CARROLL by Stuart Dodgson.

Tableau of Alice, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter at the tea party in ALICE IN WONDERLAND reproduced from THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LEWIS CARROLL by Stuart Dodgson.


Silly Umbrellas

α… My prized sterling silver Malacca Prince of Wales never forsakes me; it did that only once.  It was during a terrible storm;  I stood all alone on Mass Ave, forsaken by everybody, and then my faithful umbrella turned inside out.  I was at a loss as to whether or not I should abandon it because of its faithlessness and become a misanthrope.  I have acquired such an affection for it that I always carry it , rain or shine; indeed, to show it that I do not love it merely for its usefulness, I sometimes walk up and down my room and pretend I am outside, lean on it, open it up, rest my chin on the handle, bring it to my lips, etc… Ω

α…You ask me what I do in the world—answer:  I amuse myself—what do you think of that?  I know very well that my occupation is the opposite of most other people’s, but then at least I’m not bored. Ω

αI imagine you so vividly—my confession of love cannot disturb you—You do not know who I am—I do not know who you are—and yet there can be an understanding between us, and every time I see a pretty femme I think that she perhaps has read it, she perhaps has felt a faint shiver—and I ask whether.. .Ω

αYou are beautiful, my dear; your lips, what health they breathe, your eyes, how shining, how pure.  When you open them, it’s like a dark cloud hiding the moon and now suddenly disappearing,  and the moon’s radiance becomes twice as bright, because the cloud has polished it….You become angry with me, although wrongly so, since you do not know how guilty I am—I prefer to begin with a girl’s being angry with meΩ

αShe wears sorrow and not just the apparel of sorrowΩ


αAnd at times she nevertheless knelt before me and stretched her hands up to me!Ω