I'll be honest--I haven't read Alice in Wonderland. Considering that the novel and its sequel are practically bibles to my sister, I'm surprised I've survived this long without being hounded to read them. I plan to read them someday, but I am not particularly enthusiastic for that day to occur soon.. . .
I wrote those three sentences a few months ago already. When I first began writing this post, I wasn't entirely sure where this topic would take me. I merely began to follow the White Rabbit down that cavernous hole, and tonight I finally discovered where it had been leading me. Why was I compelled to write about Alice in Wonderland in the first place? Why indeed.
Tonight was not a night like any other, but it was not spectacular either. I went to see my first drive-in movie on the roof of a building in downtown LA. I went with my sister and her friends, who have become my friends too, but who I'm sure continue to see me through the filter of my sister. I must admit, it makes sense.
Instead of opting to sit in the car like the activity would suggest, we all sat together on blankets in front of the screen. My sister and I, being rather under-prepared, resorted to alternately leaning on our hands and angling our necks sharply upward in an attempt to comfortably view the screen. Physical discomfort aside, my sister seemed very much at ease, chatting with strangers quite happily, her good mood infectious. I, on the other hand, being neither verbose nor taciturn, merely gazed out and absorbed the world around me.
Everyone was either chatting or had the same bemused expression on their face that I wore--we weren't uncomfortable, but we weren't entirely sure what to do next. And that's when the truth slowly materialized before my eyes like a grin without a cat: I was becoming a spectator in my own life. One of my greatest fears was coming true! The reason I found myself on that roof tonight was the same reason I suddenly felt compelled to begin writing about a book I've never read--I rely too much on my sister for direction.
There is more wisdom in the Cheshire Cat's words than I had previously understood. When Alice asks for direction but does not know where she wants to go, the Cheshire Cat appropriately responds that it therefore does not matter which way she goes. I bring this up not to imply that I have led a directionless life, but every now and then I find myself pressed against the glass, watching my sister on the other side.
A younger sister syndrome, perhaps. Nothing too serious. But as one takes greater control, life becomes curiouser and curiouser. . .
