melancholia

Wonderland

ii.

The Hatter used to expect the unexpected. Now he expects nothing, and he is never surprised. All he can do is take another sip.

The Hatter smiles and plans un-birthday teas on the day he is born, just to see what will happen. Nothing, of course. Everything, of course.

Sometimes, when he has tea and scones on his own, he dances and balances the cup on his brim and tries to count until he spills a drop. The Hatter has nothing else to do anyway. But the Hatter has so much to do, why does he waste his time? The Hatter hurries-quickly, quietly, with poise that scare the dormice and the hares, the Hatter commands without commanding. The Hatter declares with a whisper that sounds through the clearing and calls together anyone who knows how to listen. Tea is served.

The Hatter has been poisoned. Mercury poisoning, because mercury slowly-quickly corrupts. Mercury, the fastest planet orbiting the sun, that can be seen sometimes performing its revolutions on the brims of his hats or the rims of his teacups.

Mercury, the quicksilver element that escape from everyone's hands but his own. The Hatter may be mad, but he knows that he can never try to tame Mercury. Mercury has tamed him.

Mad as he is, the Hatter is gifted. No hatter can make a hat as well as he. But the Hatter never sells them. Because he is Mad? Maybe. The Hatter makes the best hats because he understands the quicksilver more than any man. He understands, and has forsaken his beloved water to swim in mercury instead.

Mercury, Hermes, Mercury. God of Eloquence, of Magic. Mercury, the psychopomp that leads the souls away after poisoning them. Mercury, the orator, the mathematician. Mercury, god of knowledge, of debate, of persuasion, of information. God of dreams, of speed, of flight, of cunning, of commerce, of contests and luck, of merchants and of thieves.

For Mercury is a fickle friend and can give you profits and steal them away. Mercury, the tricksters; jesters and magicians, for they are both the same thing.

Mercury, the Hatter thinks as he pours Earl Grey for a violet non-stranger, Mercury is a cat.

The Hatter knows better than to worship Mercury. He would much rather have a fair-weather friend.

The Hatter knows Mercury. He knows that he is not Mercury. No. Never that. For the Hatter always stays the same, and it is when he is the most static and unchanging that he is the most unpredictable.

"Let's get up," he says to his guests, "Let's switch seats."

He can never say, "How do you do?" or "Fine weather we're having." The Hatter tries to speak on more than riddles and poems when he's giving out his tea. But he can't. The Hatter hides behind cured felt, his unanswerable riddles and silly poems and waits for someone who can make him feel sane in this never ending world of hearts and spades and dreams and death.

"Why is raven like a writing desk?" Are you as mad as I am?

--

I suspect I am, my good sir.