The Solarium By Night Pretty Poison Down the Garden Path (Miya and Foxglove) Lost in the Woods Theatricum Botanicum Stone Fox "The only people for me are the mad ones ... mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn....." - Jack Kerouac Gothic Gardening Canada: Poisonous Plants / Common Names HOME

Little Girl Lost Here along the northern coast, the snow has never quite managed to penetrate the treetops, not the whole winter long, and so the thick tangle of foliage, from a bird’s eye view, appears like some kind of comfit or pastry, dusted with confectioner’s sugar from the last of the season’s storms. But down below, the ground is still brittle, and even with impending spring, cold enough that the sound of a feather falling would resonate with an electric crackle, and a pair of slippered feet no longer whisper, but crunch, snapping desiccated twigs with the pitch of bones breaking. How appropriate… the sound of bones breaking… she imagines that they are her own bones, crumbling under the weight of a winter madness drawn out far too long… at the height of her dementia, the world was a blissful, colorful place, a pinwheel of rainbows set against the bleak landscape of winter white… But by this time, her blood has thickened to the consistency of syrup, making movement difficult and every step a silent torture all its own… if spring does not arrive soon, she may well die in these woods, laying prone and with gloved fingers outstretched, reaching for the sanity denied her all these months… Her skin is a reflection of the somber white above, stretched and gaunt over the frame of her cheeks, and lips that once blossomed with the abundance of sweet raspberries now appear iced and bloodless… She wanders aimlessly, following some sort of invisible trail through the jungle, herding herself towards the perfume of gardens nearby, a home where she may flourish once again… her satin suit is frayed with the tears of thorny vines that reach out to catch her, but still she plods on, leaving tracks of marabou down to dust the leaves in her wake… Draped in a velvet wrap to ward off the chill, she clutches nervously at a single potted snapdragon - her only possession, to all appearances - cradling it so protectively that one would have thought it was a small child… her child… All around her, the jungle dances like teapots on a checkered tablecloth… the vines rumba and the leaves samba, waving her first in one direction, then teasing her with another… and through the veil of madness tainting her eyes, what else can she do but follow where they lead her? Angst Angels Has the jungle ever spoken to you? It speaks to everyone, sooner or later, in tongues of beating tropic drum or voudoun trumpet... cicadas clicking in Morse code... To those whose feet have worn a rut from traveling the same concentric circles, it throbs the loudest... go here... the whipsaw cracking of fronds to downtrodden stalks... go there... goblin songs as fang and feather peer out from behind every tree, then slink away, nattering their triumph... It is not so much the incessant grating of cerrated edge leaves across her cheeks, or the snags at her coat, or even the way the vine tattoo keeps creeping from beneath her pant leg, reaching out to greet its estranged brethren, and inadvertently tripping her on the way... More than that, it is the frustration of being lost in paradise... Her vision was none too clear when the day started... hasn't been for months... And now, with the foliage playing its tricks on her, apparently determined to keep her close to its bosom for all time... She has an ocean's tolerance for games, but hide-and-seek, even in paradise, wears thin given time... "Brassica campestris... Cannabis sativa... Datura innoxia...," she mutters, reciting by rote in an effort to build a barrier between the sounds within and without... "Euphorbia milii... Kalanchoe daigremontiana... Pteridium aquilinium... Solanum nigrum..." And she clutches the snapdragon to her chest, as genus and species roll over her tongue like prayers... A sudden beam of white heat glances across her path... and she stops short... this is something new, after all... Did she stray from the circle? Or did it move while she wasn't looking? "Digitalis purpurea..." Another stray fragment of glow lies just beyond, and she rushes towards it, drawn as though by a magnet... no, this is not the same setting at all... this is something altogether new... "Coooo-nium maaaculaaatum," she gasps, drawing out every syllable and making an expletive of poison hemlock. "Well, I'll be..." With gloved fingertips (kid dyed lavendar, and clashing badly with the overwhelming verdancy of the terrain), she pushes the curtain of vines aside, and steps out onto a clearing... and the puckish chatter recedes... to be replaced by... bells, crystalline and dainty... the hesitant quivers of a music box... The potted plant that she has cherished so throughout her journey is quickly forgotten in a heap of crumbled terra cotta and spilled soil, and she becomes the music box dancer, arching up onto slippered toes and spinning into the clearing with a look of jubilation... It is a grove where only the faintest traces of light may intrude, shaded by looming trees, and it would seem that, over the winter past, the snow did fall through here... but the shade of the upper boughs kept spring's first rays from taking it away too quickly... and so here, on the threshold of a new season... it's not much, just a patch of frost, really... but it's enough... and so here is one last chance... Diving onto her back and staring straight up into the benevolent face of Father Sol, she spreads her legs and thrusts her arms out to the side... poised and ready for making one last snow angel, before spring snatches all this divine madness away... But the radiance washing over her, turning lips of wine to fresh raspberry once more, warming her brittle bones, teasing her with the chirp of morning birds and singing a chorus of hallelujahs to the sky... well, that warmth inspires a sparkle of mischief in already wild amethyst eyes... A moment's pause... a reverent nod to her benefactor... and her arms begin to thrash... hysterical laughter erupts from her throat, cockle shells and windchimes... and her legs twist, the curious vine clinging dizzily to her calf... and her head rolls from side to side... as she creates an impression in this last bit of winter frost... Not exactly your typical snow angel... But she is hardly the typical flower... Last Traces of Frost Laughter and gaiety are the order of the day... the birds, their voices have finally come, to drown out those other mutterings in her mind... and as she gazes into the heaven of a clear blue sky, the clouds speak to her... and the wind whispers her name... And her synapses crackle... And her muscles ache for longing... And her thrashing slows until sateen lavendar limbs fall useless at her sides, leaving her helpless in the shadow impression that is as much lime powder as the last traces of frost. Her eyes remain unblinking for several long minutes, and her breathing is so shallow that the marabou at her collar barely stirs, and then only at the whim of the winds. I shall stay until the wind changes... A frown like storm clouds begins to brew in her features, and she rights herself with a snap, sending the eggplant braid flying over one shoulder. Gone from her eyes are the mad ravings and tea parties and lemon drops... replaced by a steady cold unease as her gaze traipses over the surroundings of the clearing... as if she's no idea how she got there... but every idea where she's going... Picking herself up, dusting herself off, and smoothing the wrinkles in her jacket out into a perfectly placid lavendar plane, she nudges at a shard of terra cotta with one slippered toe... then ambles back the way she came... silent... and making a thorough study of the flora supplies all around her... taking down genus and species and chemical composition and lethal potential... all on a notepad in the back of her newly closed mind... This time, there will be no more circles... the draw of the house is as clear as a bell to her... crystal, pulling her along the winding path... Spring has arrived.. at least in her veins. Botanical Treasures The swells of cello and flute, oboe and trilling soprano... the homecoming operetta is there to greet her, as the gate rises before her eyes... how long she has been wandering, she could not say, for it no longer matters... reason has conquered urgency... and it could not precisely be called wandering, for that matter, as every step, though feather-light, has a purpose... And along her journey, she has collected far more than that with which she started out - fresh cuttings nestled in the crook of her arm, caladium and camas and prickly comfrey, rapeseed and tansy and thin-leaved snowberry... the assortment makes for quite a bundle, but she holds them close, as though they were her own children. Anxious to get them inside, these abbreviated seedlings, and to discover that place she must surely have claimed already (something in the vague rationale awakening tells her that she must have sent her bags ahead - surely she would not have left the vast content of her Solarium behind), she nudges her toe impatiently against the bottom of the gate. It swings wide at her summons, and with the reborn wonder of awareness, and the wide, fascinated eyes of a child, she cannot help but note that there don't seem to be any gate posts... the wings of wood and iron seem suspended on the leaves themselves, and if they are supported on poles and hinges, then such mechanics are buried too far into the foliage to be seen ... or heard... But a little regard is all the phenomenon rates right now, with her precious new family yearning for soil and something to slake their thirst... Has it been such a long journey that the sun is all gone, and the moon in its place? Oh, yes... and a tinge of bitter cold, besides, enough to bring the madness wincing back into her joints for one brief moment... Beyond, however, she can see the hothouse welcome of the Gallica Path, with its glass shingles and dark mysteries... and the smell of roses and fern lifts her senses to rapture once more... and so she strides ahead, whispering across the gravel on slippered feet... only to pause at the mouth of the tunnel, and note, with some degree of devilish charm, that she still cannot see the house...