No.255

A note: I couldn’t divide myself cleanly into two today and as such the following is an extract from the piece which went out to paid subscribers earlier, Dimishing Powers:

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When living in a corner of southwest Ireland—roughly the years 2020 to 2022—there was, as there always is, an accumlation of plants within the house. By the time we left for Scotland there were about twenty of them, variously sized and variously happy or unhappy, variously loved or variously tolerated if their needs felt outsized compared to their greenness. One of them, a gift from my partner during a period of more acute anxiety—topical—was a Stephania pierrei, or Stephania erecta, which consists of a caudex (in Latin meaning ‘tree trunk’), an ostensibly potato-like thing out of which slender pale green stems eventually grew, barely, always hesitantly, though apparently happily enough, until it got infected with scaly bugs and I spent several hours one day (anxiously) removing every last one with dampened cotton wool buds. It had not weathered the scaly bugs particularly well, but persisted with its barely-there growth, and I kept it next to my desk on a windowsill in a dark green room, a proximity we both liked at least.

I loved it in the way one can love anything alive, and by the time we relocated to Scotland the potato (it had by now become imaginatively known as ‘the potato’) was a stunted 15-20cm in height, with a few slightly sickly-looking leaves, though none of this from a lack of care and attentiveness. The day the plants were moved out from the house to the van there was a slight breeze—with hindsight I wonder if that’s all it took—and I remember placing Stephania pierrei out on the front steps with some other greens, likely the first time in its whole life it had been outside.

While boxes and objects were carried out of the front door the poor plant’s single stem waved desperately in the wind, and while at the time I thought oh, it must feel relieved to be out here in the actual air it was never its same sad self again, and within a few months of being in a different country and a different home it had resolutely given up. It had not been made resilient, it had not been safe sitting on its most protected, sheltered Irish windowsill. If I ever saw an anxious-looking plant it was that one, and at this particular moment in time it might as well be an analogy for the potential consequences of always keeping a life within what can appear to be the safest, most comfortable and protected circumstances.

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THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:

Paintings by Norwich, Norfolk-based artist Lara Cobden.

All of this, so much so much to feel in the body, some snips from Mother Load by Sara Michas-Martin:

The definition of here means “in this place,” this spot or locality. Also, a directional statement meant to point out where we are, as in, Here is where the needle will deliver immunity. As in, Here we are inside the house versus outside in “nature.” As in, Here we see a ghostlike shopping bag floating seven miles deep through the Mariana Trench. Here we are in time. In this human experiment.

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For example, an apple is not an apple because the soil is no longer the soil. It is something else with microplastics mixed in, which are then pulled into the tree and delivered through the fruit, which is fruit but now also plastic.

The average person consumes five grams of microplastic a week. That is equal to the weight of five paper clips, or one sharpened number two pencil, one hundred and fifty-four staples, half a poker chip, or an entire credit card.

The irony of plastic is that it was never tested for human consumption, and our consumption has now turned us into repositories for plastic.

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How will the children safely grow their brains? No amount of ruin is acceptable.

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There is so much to clean up already, so much that needs to be sorted or put away.

“Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself,” writes the poet Mary Szybist.

Again and for however long necessary: (Actions for demanding a Free Palestine and an end to occupation.) / (Reading list for a Free Palestine.) / (Postcards for Palestine, free PDF downloads.) / (Send a physical postcard.) / (Ten free ebooks for getting free from Haymarket Books.)

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