I used to think I was a bad-ass. I wasn’t really, but I had some good reasons to think so. I’d taught myself to breathe fire, I hitch hiked, I played rugby. At the time, my lower-impact hobbies seemed ironic. I cooked a lot, and loved to garden, I still do, but now that I’m not trying to catch a freight train out of my city, that great contrast is gone. Now I come home from work, sit on my porch and sip tea and maybe pull some weeds. I sing to my cat, who wanders in the yard behind me. It would be almost unbearable if I weren’t cultivating enough poison to kill my whole block.
The Bleeding Heart, a sweetly melancholy and old fashioned addition to my yard, causes convulsions and is toxic to cats and dogs.
The Opium Poppy, Papaver Somniferum, is actually illegal, but still available and used to make narcotic concoctions.
Pliny the Elder wrote about Hellebore. This one will look really nice next to my house, it’s a sort of fuzzy-chick yellow, I’m going to have the trim painted a mediterranean gold.
So yes, I garden and live like a little old lady, but it’s ok. Now I just live in a Faulkner novel, and argue about my clematis with ghosts.