Weed Friday 30 April

Pancho Mulongeni

A description afternoon

I wanted to weed the garden observing how they were crowding my growing tomatoes and pumpkins. I thought it would be therapeutic, removing the things in my life that were just suffocating my potential to grow, throttling them and pulling them out, very much the action described by the French verb dérracher – which actually is my own invention, a combination of the verb arracher which is the action of weeding and déraciner, which is to uproot.

I almost did not end up deweeding anything, because I thought that I best come to writing work reviewing an old draft before the workshop today. So I just decided to make a quick pass by the lemon tree to collect that fallen lemon I see under its branches outside my window. But as I walked passed that serrated leaved weed – one of the many in the garden – I reached for its stalk. Spiny it was and I feared that it would prick my hands so much so that I would regret grabbing it later. The image of Jesus and the thorns, however, calmly entered my mind and I realized that through this pain I would rid myself of a nuisance and that I need not fear, because this was nothing compared to the crown of thorns! I pulled it by the base and its thorns turned out to be nettles that broke under my grip. It came out with not too much effort.

That felt like a desirable thing to do again, it was soothing to core of my various sins. I had just weeded out my want for pornography and I was hooked. I came to the others amongst the grasses just under the shade of the low wall. I pulled them all out, one by one, feeling the rush it gave me. There was no more pain or regret or planning of what to do here I was removing it all.

They were troublesome though, those weeds. Though there spines were not hard, they did lodge into my pink’s soft skin. Then I would just try and pull them out quickly to reduce the pain to a quick pinch, but sometimes this would lead to the snapping of their stems. Then I realize these were demons indeed, with white blood and probably healing powers if I did not deracine them! I threw them on the ground, with the clumps of earth at their roots. I did this all along the length of the wall, coming across a little grub rolled up like a snails shell and I reveled in the loamy smell of humus.

The garden was alive with warm wet soil, since it had rained yesterday. It was a dark brown earth and nearly as soft as clay. I realized it would be ideal to cover these weed bodies in the earth and burry them – vanquishing back to the earth, back to the carbon, nitrogen, the CaFeCHOPKINS (and other elements) from whence they came. I did not want them to just lie there in the open. But perhaps it would have been interesting to see how they would like three weeks later, like the old orange I came across. It’s orange peel was covered in a white and green dust here and there and when I squeezed it, puffs of white smoke came out from a small hole in its surface. I wondered whether any creatures lived therein.

In any case, this exercise proved useful for my writing. Now I can hear that “voice” they speak about in writing, emanating from the text. It is an American voice, sadly or fortunately – depending on your stance. Nonetheless, I am a better writer for having weeded.