Apartment Lot, Day 2

Tuesday, September 15, 2009, 4:28pm

I'm back.  My wild place at the edge of Shadyside is loud today with the whirr of far-off bird and cricket chirps, their crescendo a metallic hum like the engine of a semi.  It is warm.  I can hear the papery crinkle of ivy beneath my wrists as I rest my arms on the concrete ledge that covers the textured brick that braces the ivy.  It likes to grow in patterns--clusters of large, dark leaves; patches of rain-battered, mottled leaves; leaves that are two-toned, marbled like the backs of frogs; and small leaves growing on tapering horizontal vines, nearly neon bright, each long strand reaching for something.

Beyond these reaching rows of ivy there's nothing but dirty brick and dead leaves, things older than they are--duller, drained of vibrance and pigment.  I can't think of a reason these vines would be reaching for something like that--that kind of existence, aging, a kind of settling in.  I sit on the ground, try to move a vine from beneath me, and find that it's stuck--suctioned to the pavement with its tiny, squiggly feet, the same way it anchors itself to the wall.  I think about evolution--how if ivy is capable of surviving on either ground or wall, it must be conditioned to choose the wall, where it's safe from sneaker soles and shadows, where it can absorb the light and rain without being trampled, drowned, or wilted.  So why the compulsion to affix itself to the concrete?  Is this vine like the man who chains himself to a tree to make a statement?  I wonder about sentience, whether a plant has the means to think for itself--and while unlikely, there is always instinct, the need for survival.  But this act of crawling along the concrete, planting one's feet firmly and not letting go, and reaching farther and farther into the realm of danger surely cannot be survival instinct.  Humans eliminate themselves and others and plants by suicide, homicide, herbicide.  What do you call a plant that endangers its own life?  Does nature have accidents, make mistakes?

A honey bee hesitates near the ivy on the wall, looking for something to gather, to sustain itself.  I think about the barbs on its stinger, how when it strikes in self-defense, its spindly weapon comes loose, remains with the wounded, and the honey bee dies soon after.  It is thought that the stinger evolved this way in response to vertebrate predators, as the barbs only function in flesh.  But evolution has its surprises.  And yet they still sting, out of instinct, and surely they know what must happen, the sacrifice they are making, the things they are losing, or leaving behind.

I pick up a feather that is nestled in a mound of dead leaves.  It is dark, brownish-black, and I wonder where it came from--whether the bird is still alive.  Death in nature is matter-of-fact, a simple yes or no like the flip of a coin.  Nature faces mortality in a multitude of ways.  Humans are the same, but with humans come fear, doubt, sadness, wonder, regret.  Morals.  With nature there is only instinct, only nature.  Only the fact of it, that things are the way they are, and what they are, like this feather--a memento that, with proper care, will never decay, change appearance, lose presence.  I think of all the solitary feathers in the world, how many there must be--symbols of loss and discovery, life and death--filling the earth with reminders.  The bee does what it does, what it needs to do.  The ivy grows, and keeps growing.