The Roses on the Mantle
With all this reading going on at once I find myself getting lost between books. The other night I swear Don Quixote marched into the Jordon College where he and Lyra discussed his next knightly errant. First they were going to solve the gobblers gobbling problem, then go rescue Alice from Wonderland by way of the looking glass. Meanwhile Sancho Panza, Northrop Frye, and Jack from the bean stock were chatting about the seasons and islands somewhere in La Mancha: Frye picking through the ashes of books in search of a title for his next essay and Sancho doing the same but without any understanding as to why.
And while all this is going on I’m at work starting a ferocious fire. As I searched for kindling in the woodshed I found two small plastic roses, no bigger than a dime. To find roses in the woodshed seemed odd, or maybe lucky, I wasn’t sure; but either way I choose to take the roses inside. Once the fire was flickering and I cleaned off the ashes from the mantle I placed one rose on each end. They didn’t stick out at all, in fact they looked like they belonged there and fit in with the surrounding decorations in the dining room. I thought myself clever for this and wondered if anyone would notice the roses. As it turned out I did quite a bit of pizza cooking that night; at one time there was seven hungry people feasting on pizza at the bar around me, everyone oblivious to the fairy tale they were submersed in – the eyes of the roses watching their every bite. After the pizza rush I hopped back and forth between the kitchen and pizza bar, checking in on the new chef and simultaneously milking the customers for tips; I was a white-chef-rabbit, always late, checking the time, and wondering when the queen, err boss, would reprimand me, or worse: off with my head.
The night spiraled down to only display the stars and darkness, little fragrant portals, dimly starred among a larger one. I hadn’t eaten all night since I was too busy busting out pizza, lamb chops, halibut, fettuccini, deep fried calamari, salads, crème brulee, and spumoni for all the starving people; but that was no matter for a hatter, I still had a bike ride home where I could stop and find some roots and berries, beer and bread. The treads teemed underneath me, humming louder and softer depending on the pedal stroke. Coasting through Cooper park, a group of caterpillars were dancing around a picnic table performing a ‘pillar ritual which involved an elaborate blue and green hookah with three straws for sucking smoke. A silver cord spiraled up the hookah continuing into the smoke that sailed away in the form of a nasty pirate ship. The caterpillars didn’t notice me ride by and I heard one say, ‘but if it was only the spirits of the trees, that talked and taught, who showed us the way to immortality, it would have been heavy wind, the grunting weight of wind and leaves…’ The ‘pillar’s voice trailed off as I coasted out of the park and realized that nobody noticed the roses on the mantle.
