Figurines

photo by brettanicus.

Once in a grand ol’ while, I see flowers burst from the carpet, blue skies wash across the ceiling, birds alight on the stems of reading lamps. Grasses, fields, clover, goldfish swimming in the candle pillars. Light the candle. The goldfish flicker and flutter. Dream of angels, devils, the wash of sacred water between my toes. I grew jungles out of potted palms, bayous in the turtle tank. The turtle spoke to me, “Mr. Wood, you’ve neglected me for a while. Don’t get me wrong, I can live off of two meals a week, but look at my paltry legs. Look at the thin reed of my neck. Where once there was strength, now there is decrepitude. The Barrister is coming today to have a word with you. I’ve asked him to be kind, as you have been to me over these last dozen years or so. But today is a day of reckoning, and the balance of owner vs. tenant, pet vs. man, slave vs. master will be pitched on its head. So I leave you with that forewarning, and for now, good bye.” The turtle withdrew his head into his shell, tucked in his legs so that only the tips of his claws peaked out, and curled his tail against is hind leg. How I wished I could have a shell.

So now I must wait for my visit from the Barrister; how shall I waste my time? Books wait on the shelves; Plato’s Republic, Machiavelli’s Prince, Winnie the Pooh, but instead I reached for the etch-a-sketch. Such confines of control, only left or right, up or down, and the illusion of a curved line which is really only miniscule right angles traded off, one for the other. I drew a mountain, a palm tree, and a little house in the foothills. Then I turned it upside down, gave it a good shake, and it was all gone, mostly, swept by a sand storm.

How many figurines do I have in my room? Not pictures, but actual shapes? They come out of the woodwork, stretch their heads, blaze their colors and shake free their loose feathers to drift upon the floor. The parrot of the golden breast and fiery wings. I’ve waited a year for him to utter a word, but he only sits deep in thought. Across the way from him, the sullen Eeyore with droopy ears and eyes, a little tuft of black hair perched on the peak of his head like a bird’s nest, though surely not the parrot’s; he would require a more noble homestead to prop up those heavy thoughts that plague him. Then across the way, a naked man sitting on a rock, pitch black skin, great strength of limbs but weak of mind. We move on to the upper bookshelf, with no books displayed but only the artifacts I’ve gathered over the years, like my Grandmother’s English tea pot, two Japanese tea cups, a pipe that was a gift when I turned thirty—but back now to figurines; floating above these artifacts is a porcelain fairy with delicate lace wings, a halo of golden curls, with delicate and breakable features still intact.

There are more figures coming out of the fog. Three Grecian women with clasped hands encircle a pot, with no plants inside, only empty space. The bronzed faces of a man and woman, pitted at opposite sides of the room. And lastly, a rubber iguana perched on the window sill; I stare at him for hours to catch him moving, but he doesn’t even blink. Until I look away, at which time he scurries across the room into the palm fronds.

There's a knock at the door, and the turtle comes out of his shell. It must be the Barrister.