Message from Alice
By Ginna Wilkerson
I seem to have become Alice in the White Rabbit’s house, tossing cakes out the window at the strange crowd below, grown too large to wiggle but a finger. I wear an overcoat of anxiety in the form of my house, expanding around the shell of me to restrict my every movement. Not physical movement, like the literary Alice, but my ability to make decisions, create art—to move forward in any meaningful way.
Abandoned art projects litter my upstairs studio—the place in which I had intended, only months ago, to make art of the highest order, earth-shattering, world-changing art that would make me famous. At night sometimes I sit on the floor in the center of this ruined ideal and listen to the radio: kitschy old songs from the eighties that captured my hear
