fiesta

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Murder in the field

Bermudiana

And so the murder victim was dumped into the blue-eyed grass, which, quite naturally, witnessed the whole sordid thing. But how much weight does testimony from plant life carry? There was a case, in Lithuanian, where a dumb-cane ratted on a counterfeiter, but I don’t think the jury was impressed. But I could be misremembering, as often happens on those shoulder days between winter and spring, between madness and lucidity. You know the days. They are neither fish nor fowl. And, while we are on the subject, evidentiary testimony from fish (or fowl) is highly unreliable, though in a pinch you may be happy to call on a rainbow trout to deliver that knockout punch you so desperately need to advance your fledgling career as a prosecutor. Because without successes, there’s no fame or notoriety or cranberry-colored sports cars. And without winter, there’s no spring. Still, it’s pretty hard to get a cogent statement from sedges or from any type of grass. The best one could hope for is that some members of the jury are so buoyed at seeing a clump of sorghum being dragged into court, leaving a messy trail of mud and detritus, which a gawky paralegal must clean up, that they buy into the sweet sorghum story.

So you can see that there are difficulties in getting non-sentient life forms to clinch a case for you, not because they don’t have anything to say, but rather that we are unlikely to understand their subtle language, which leads us again to madness.

Pictured is Sisyrinchium bermudiana, our national flower. It’s some sort of Iris, which explains why it’s so good at seeing clandestine cum murderous activity or at spying on the sun, a sort of self-imposed chaperone. The sun, that giant cyclops, watches us mercilessly, so why shouldn’t slender and graceful Irises watch it? Naturally it’s a rhetorical question, but I won’t hold that against anyone who feels compelled to provide an answer.

Bermudiana

To be or not to be

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she loves me–she loves me not

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Prospero, can’t you grow daisies like everybody else?

The short answer, predictably, is no. It’s not that the beauty of a wildflower doesn’t terrify me; it’s just that the mind of a collector, to whose fraternity I belong, is generally predisposed to seek the unusual and, dare I say, the grotesque–like a huckster at a carnival seeks to surround himself with nothing but the tallest and shortest of the splendid (though sometimes maligned) homo sapiens genus: in short, he dines in a wind ruffled tent with wise giants and wily dwarfs.

Amorphophallus paeoniifolius

À celui qui a vu l’ange

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She cupped her hand and, with brimful eyes fixed to a narrow glowing point, explained that it contained the world.

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Imaginary life.

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