Page 8, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

*Fruit is meant to be eaten, it is created for another thing.  The message held in what is unable to be digested, instead it is meant to be deposited with the fertilization of another.  Chance is the operation here.

What does hygiene accomplish if not the blind hubris of modernity, our fragile fragile live stripped

This does not imply that we should not be tidy.  Only that so often a houseplant is bought, a pretty pot is bought, fertilizer is bought, and still we wonder why our houseplants die, shrivel, become long-legged, turn brown at the edges of their leaves, becomes lopsided.  Plants have a hard time living like us, well, like so-called modern, developed people.

Of course there are those who are exceptional at getting houseplants to thrive.  It takes a good ear.  You can tell a lot about a person based on the health of a potted plant under their care.  It is tempting to formalize the conditions, but our lives are never as clean as all that.

In general, a dried up plant signifies the inability of its caretake to remain aware of other rhythms of life outside of their own.  Too much water, too frantic — only able to see need as one thing.

There is hygiene and then there is taking care.  It is beyond hearsay, but I have the memory of discovering a zen koan, r perhaps not zen, but a koan, a maxim a cryptic tool for living — that the luckiest person is the person with a clean toilet.  If you have the time to maintain this seemingly invisible aspect of daily life, the thought follows that you have the time to keep other invisible things in order.  

Plants, toilets, water, drains, pipes.  Curiosity cabinets.


It is hardly a new thought that our environment reflects our interior although custom has it to maintain constant surprise when we elucidate this claim.  it sells more help yourself books, more page clicks click, more interpreters of the phenomenon whether psychiatrists or fengshui organizers.  But really, we remain ever surprised because we remain ever horrified at what escapes our clustered redactions.  But still, we blackened the thought so darkly that instead of making life and death choices about what serves us and what doesn’t we let it all live all the time since we don’t know what we’ll love.

Good gardeners know when something is dead.  Some might say modernity neglects death.  You know what that makes postmodernity.

Sometimes I imagine great gardens at the other end of our plumbing, all the seeds in plant heaven.