Organic growth meets concrete and steel between the cracks of the city. We planted boxes of small, helpless leafy organisms on our patio — flowers, vegetables, herbs, and fruits — their bundled roots twisting like hundreds of slender white worms through the dark brown soil. I bought thirty litres of dirt, soft and fresh, packed in a colourful plastic bag which we hauled up the elevator and out the sliding door. We ripped in, gorging on the peat with our bare hands as we scooped clumps into pots and trays smoothing it into the controlled spaces of our design. And then, poking wells into the organic mass with probing fingers, I plunged and packed the green and leafy masses bottom first into the spaces. And now we wait. Growth of something in a seemingly sterile environment. A space without life beyond that which I supply — or that which finds it’s way unwelcomed into the gaps I leave in my care. I read a story once about a man who finds himself two hundred years into the future. Humanity has all but been wiped out, and what is left doesn’t dare enter the city for lingering fear of the plague that destroyed their unlucky ancenstors. The man is shocked to find that the plants — the tropicals, tomatoes, and violets — have sprung to eccentricity, and unchecked, have filled the spaces left by humanity’s absence. If I left tomorrow — however that might be — would my mint, my strawberry, or my marigold go on to spawn countless generations of ever-mutating breeds, filling those spaces in the city that I left behind? Or would they dry up, wither, and die? It makes you wonder. |
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