Only two years ago, when I finished the memoirs of horticulture
obsession, “Rhapsody in green,” I argued that I didn’t have time to
plants. Prickly, low-growing, macrame-dependent: I rarely less
the temptation to buy something. Or so I thought. Dimly, I noticed that the press
and social media was filled with accounts of baleen creative
the nine hundred types of ferns; in every cafe and office lobby
was ditched cool neutrals and installed between the neon and sheathing,
psychotic-view Sansevieriya m, the number of tragic
houseleeks, a pair of high dusty ficuses like ghosts happy
trees.
But I’m a late adopter, so cool I’m cool. Fashion? I was making fun of her. Therefore, even when I was gripped by a strange Zeitgeist-the changing pressure to buy
experimentally, the rows of hearts, or Ceropegia woodii, I knew
never love him. It was a little dry, grayish, inedible: what was the point?
How innocent was born in the house of alcoholics, gave her the first taste
from booze it was doomed to adore, I thought I was safe. I made
a small hook for the plants in my office, right next to my Desk, and
vowed to ignore him, which I did several times a day.
Have you ever watched a baby try a lemon? I recommend it; it will
assjuice, scrumple her face like a Banshee, then try another flavor. For
to escape from strawberries at a local plant sale, I bought like
aversion therapy, and the ugly of aloe Vera. “Good for burns,” everyone says,
and if there are any internal wounds between Ignore and emergency. In
the butcher selling home-grown Chinese jade plants, rubber terrible
things to charity. I’m not a monster, I bought two. Then I noticed
reddish stonecrop unloved dangling from a crack in a Railway bridge. My
stephanotis godmother need education. Glossy, dark purple is Aeonium Zwartkop came home with me because . . . well, at this stage, I’d run out of genuine search.
To call this a slippery slope? To watch me Polish it to a Shine. This year
despite the mild London winter, I decided that my scented pelargonium “Attar
roses” was too delicate to sit outside. I’ve always wanted to try
sprouting avocado; suddenly, I have three. Could a cat prefer
homegrown cat grass? I was a sprinkling of oat and wheat cereals on organic
compost in quite a nice terracotta pot for hours
thought. I now, unfortunately, scan the shelves in charity shops, wanting
remove the ceramic pot holders that when my grandmother died, I
lightly surrendered. The Park near my home is scattered brilliant
and chestnuts pickupable like the rich and reddish, like a healthy pony flank;
yesterday I found myself standing, as multiple Flamingo
freezes at the sight of the pink shoot emerging from the broken shell. It
will either be trampled or uprooted. I remembered that I had seen, and
contempt, on Instagram, hipsters the window sill, where the child of the chestnuts sprouted in jars of water. I thought it was cruel to
poor plants, but wait: can it really be a kindness?
And with the clarity of love, I can’t stop thinking about the Swiss-cheese plant, which, in my non-religious Jewish childhood, we draped
tinsel every Christmas. Recently, on the way to recording in the UK
The library, I accidentally entered a small and gloomy florist. They had one
for sale; this seemed significant, even if the British Library guards
it was curiously immune to his charms. Now he lives on the couch: dark
glossy, gorgeous. “Have you seen his hole?” I sing alarmed
visitors, polishing the sheet with my sleeve.
Actually, I’m starting to worry; I started to fantasize about going to IKEA
an extensive section of the plant. It seems that the bottom can
will soon be achieved. And, Yes, I know that there’s always hope if a drug addict
wants to change; I almost did. I’m almost there. I sincerely believe that
with only one donkey’s tail, and, perhaps, Calathea, I’m ready.
Sourse: newyorker.com
