dirt theatre

My nails are really dry right now, and filthy. I have dirt in my hands that I cannot get rid of. This is as a result of puttering around in my backyard garden-- an activity that, for lack of better vocabulary, is something I really really really really like.

I like it because all my experiences with plants before now have been somewhat depressing.

I was raised in suburbia. My dad was a gynecologist, and my mother a plant physiologist with a black thumb. We grew raspberry bushes-- no effort required, and keeps the neighbours out.

I remember my ex-boyfriend once gave me a bonsai tree to symbolise our growing love. It was a little evergreen. It died about a week later (although I have my suspicions that it was dead before I got it). I felt terrible. Luckily, as the evergreen could look like it was alive as long as no-one touched it (and noticed that the branch would just break off in their hand)-- I let it sit around so that my boyfriend wouldn't freak out.

Later on, I wrapped the poor thing in a shawl and trudged through snow to the local bonsai specialist/philosophy professor at Mount Allison, where I was a student. He unwrapped it gently, whispering to it. It was still alive, he told me, it just needed blah blah blah blah blah.

Anyway, I came to the firm realisation that I had no patience for whatever it was I supposed to have patience for. I broke up with my boyfriend quite soon afterward. The plant was thrown out. I got a C in Philosophy.

I gave up on plants and proceeded to have fleeting fuckfestivals with musician types-- one of which fed beer to his spider plant (but now, I have heard, is married and is growing a nice little vegetable garden).

It took until this summer to realise that plants (and relationships.. since I've somewhat broached the comparison) require warmth, food, and regular fluids. Above all, they need to be left alone at certain times.

My current boyfriend just came in. Drunk on wine and the newest Coldplay album (his secret love), he immediately goes to my brown, crackly feet. He very lightly rubs the dirt moustache made by my flip flops. He indicates how disgusting the bottoms of my feet are. I say I'll wash them before I go to bed. He just laughs, and then walks away.

Mr. Boyfriend knows that as soon as I come home I will go to pull out cootch grass, swear at burdock plants, transplant things, water, admire, fret, munch on peas, munch on beans, pick raspberries, think about buying new plants, saw tree branches, run away from bees, drink some wine, develop a hitler dirt moustache from rubbing my face, squish bugs between my fingertips, and spray the cats with water. Every so often, he will come out. We will sit together. I will ask him what certain plants really are (he grew up on a farm, and knows these things).

Then, when it is too dark to do anything more, I will come in. I will wash my filthy feet and hands, and we will go to bed.