This is what my propagation professor says to us, in this disgusted, long suffering tone, when we ask about why one plant is an exception to a rule that works for everything else. “They’re not widgets, they’re plants.”
I had a dream last night, and it felt like it lasted all night long: I’m in a huge factory and there are conveyor belts and steaming machinery and chaos everywhere. Newly extruded widgets plants march out completed and are boxed at breakneck speed. There’s a whistle and forklifts and screaming foremen. The green, perfect plants are the only living thing in the factory, and that includes the people. I keep trying to touch them, but they tear by on their way to the organophosphate shower or the pruning station and are just out of my reach. All night long, my feet hurt and I feel both sad and eager for the five o’clock whistle.
Deep.
