--0-249108703-1104444867=:23295
No mention of the poop from the birds staining people's clothes and the streets, cars, buses, houses all splattered with the red/black stains. The rats would rule the vines and be in everyone's open window. Not the kind of wildlife I like much. Cheers, Sue
Plant Spirit Herbals
Carol Jensen
Blackberries.
Nothing, not muchrooms, not ferns, not moss, not melancholy, nothing grows more vigorously, more intractably in the Puget Sound rains than blackberries. Farmers had to bulldoze them out of their fields. Homeowners dug and chopped, and still they came. Park attendants with flame throwers held them off at the gates. Even downtown, a lot left unattended for a season would be overgrown. In the wet months, blackberries spread so wildly, so rapidly that dogs and small children were sometimes engulfed and never heard from again. In the peak of the season, even adults dared not go berry picking without a military escort. Blackberry vines pushed up through solid concrete, forced their way into polite society, and tried to loop themselves over passing clouds. The aggression, speed. roughness, and nervy upward mobility of blackberries symbolized for Max and Tilli everything they disliked about America, especially the frontier.
Bernard Mickey Wrangle took a yum approach.
To the King, during tea, Bernard had advocated the planting of blackberries on every building top in Seattle. They would require no care, aside from encouraging them, arborlike, to crisscross the streets, roof to roof, to arch, forming canopies, natural arcades, as it were. In no time at all, people could walk through the city in the downpouringest of winter and feel not a splat. Every shopper, every theater-goer, every cop on the beat, every snoozing bum would be snug and dry. The pale green illumination that filtered through the dome of vines could inspire a whole new school of painting: centuries from now, art critics might speak, as of chiaroscuro, of "blackberry light." The vines would attract birds. Woodpeckers might not bother, but many birds would. The birds would sing. A bird full of berry pulp is like an Italian full of pathos. Small animals might move into the arches. "look, Billy, up there, over the Dental Building. A badger!" And the fruit, mustn't forget the fruit.
It would nourish the hungry, stabilize the poor. The more enterprising winos could distill their own spirits. Seattle could become the Blackberry Brandy capital of the World. Tourists would spend millions annually on Seattle blackberry pies, the discerning toast of the nation would demand to be spread with Seattle blackberry jam. The chefs at the French restaurants would dish up duck in purplish sauces, fill once rained-on noses with the baking aromas of g??teaux m??re de ronce. The whores might become known, affectionately, as blackberry tarts. The Teamsters could try to organize the berry pickers. And in late summer, when the brambles were proliferating madly, growing faster than the human eye can see, the energy of their furious growth could be hooked up to generators that, spinning with blackberry power, could supply electrical current for the entire metropolis. A vegetative utopia, that's what it would be, Seattle, Berry Town, encapsulated, self-sufficient, thriving under a l
iving ceiling, blossoms in its hair, juice on its chin, more blackberries - and more! - in its future. Consider the protection offered. What enemy paratroopers could get through the briars?
(From Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.)
--0-249108703-1104444867=:23295No mention of the poop from the birds staining people's clothes and the streets, cars, buses, houses all splattered with the red/black stains. The rats would rule the vines and be in everyone's open window. Not the kind of wildlife I like much. Cheers, SuePlant Spirit Herbals
Carol Jensen <jorna@MOBILIXNET.DK> wrote: Blackberries.
Nothing, not muchrooms, not ferns, not moss, not melancholy, nothing grows more vigorously, more intractably in the Puget Sound rains than blackberries. Farmers had to bulldoze them out of their fields. Homeowners dug and chopped, and still they came. Park attendants with flame throwers held them off at the gates. Even downtown, a lot left unattended for a season would be overgrown. In the wet months, blackberries spread so wildly, so rapidly that dogs and small children were sometimes engulfed and never heard from again. In the peak of the season, even adults dared not go berry picking without a military escort. Blackberry vines pushed up through solid concrete, forced their way into polite society, and tried to loop themselves over passing clouds. The aggression, speed. roughness, and nervy upward mobility of blackberries symbolized for Max and Tilli everything they
disliked about America, especially the frontier.
Bernard Mickey Wrangle took a yum approach.
To the King, during tea, Bernard had advocated the planting of blackberries on every building top in Seattle. They would require no care, aside from encouraging them, arborlike, to crisscross the streets, roof to roof, to arch, forming canopies, natural arcades, as it were. In no time at all, people could walk through the city in the downpouringest of winter and feel not a splat. Every shopper, every theater-goer, every cop on the beat, every snoozing bum would be snug and dry. The pale green illumination that filtered through the dome of vines could inspire a whole new school of painting: centuries from now, art critics might speak, as of chiaroscuro, of "blackberry light." The vines would attract birds. Woodpeckers might not bother, but many birds would. The birds would sing. A bird full of berry pulp is like an Italian full of pathos. Small animals might move into the arches. "look,
Billy, up there, over the Dental Building. A badger!" And the fruit, mustn't forget the fruit.
It would nourish the hungry, stabilize the poor. The more enterprising winos could distill their own spirits. Seattle could become the Blackberry Brandy capital of the World. Tourists would spend millions annually on Seattle blackberry pies, the discerning toast of the nation would demand to be spread with Seattle blackberry jam. The chefs at the French restaurants would dish up duck in purplish sauces, fill once rained-on noses with the baking aromas of g??teaux m??re de ronce. The whores might become known, affectionately, as blackberry tarts. The Teamsters could try to organize the berry pickers. And in late summer, when the brambles were proliferating madly, growing faster than the human eye can see, the energy of their furious growth could be hooked up to generators that, spinning with blackberry power, could supply electrical current for the entire metropolis. A vegetative utopia,
that's what it would be, Seattle, Berry Town, encapsulated, self-sufficient, thriving under a l
iving ceiling, blossoms in its hair, juice on its chin, more blackberries - and more! - in its future. Consider the protection offered. What enemy paratroopers could get through the briars?
(From Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.)
--0-249108703-1104444867=:23295--
Blackberries.
Nothing, not muchrooms, not ferns, not moss, not melancholy, nothing grows more vigorously, more intractably in the Puget Sound rains than blackberries. Farmers had to bulldoze them out of their fields. Homeowners dug and chopped, and still they came. Park attendants with flame throwers held them off at the gates. Even downtown, a lot left unattended for a season would be overgrown. In the wet months, blackberries spread so wildly, so rapidly that dogs and small children were sometimes engulfed and never heard from again. In the peak of the season, even adults dared not go berry picking without a military escort. Blackberry vines pushed up through solid concrete, forced their way into polite society, and tried to loop themselves over passing clouds. The aggression, speed. roughness, and nervy upward mobility of blackberries symbolized for Max and Tilli everything they disliked about America, especially the frontier.
Bernard Mickey Wrangle took a yum approach.
To the King, during tea, Bernard had advocated the planting of blackberries on every building top in Seattle. They would require no care, aside from encouraging them, arborlike, to crisscross the streets,
Blackberries.
Nothing, not muchrooms, not ferns, not moss, not melancholy, nothing gro=
ws more vigorously, more intractably in the Puget Sound rains than blackb=
erries. Farmers had to bulldoze them out of their fields. Homeowners dug =
and chopped, and still they came. Park attendants with flame throwers hel=
d them off at the gates. Even downtown, a lot left unattended for a seaso=
n would be overgrown. In the wet months, blackberries spread so wildly, s=
o rapidly that dogs and small children were sometimes engulfed and never =
heard from again. In the peak of the season, even adults dared not go ber=
ry picking without a military escort. Blackberry vines pushed up through =
solid concrete, forced their way into polite society, and tried to loop t=
hemselves over passing clouds. The aggression, speed. roughness, and nerv=
y upward mobility of blackberries symbolized for Max and Tilli everything=
they disliked about America, especially the frontier.
Bernard Mickey Wrangle took a yum approach.
To the King, during tea, Bernard had advocated the planting of blackberr=
ies on every building top in Seattle. They would require no care, aside f=
rom encouraging them, arborlike, to crisscross the streets, roof to roof,=
to arch, forming canopies, natural arcades, as it were. In no time at al=
l, people could walk through the city in the downpouringest of winter and=
feel not a splat. Every shopper, every theater-goer, every cop on the be=
at, every snoozing bum would be snug and dry. The pale green illumination=
that filtered through the dome of vines could inspire a whole new school=
of painting: centuries from now, art critics might speak, as of chiarosc=
uro, of "blackberry light." The vines would attract birds. Woodpeckers mi=
ght not bother, but many birds would. The birds would sing. A bird full o=
f berry pulp is like an Italian full of pathos. Small animals might move =
into the arches. "look, Billy, up there, over the Dental Building. A badg=
er!" And the fruit, mustn't forget the fruit.
It would nourish the hungry, stabilize the poor. The more enterprising wi=
nos could distill their own spirits. Seattle could become the Blackberr=
y Brandy capital of the World. Tourists would spend millions annually on =
Seattle blackberry pies, the discerning toast of the nation would demand =
to be spread with Seattle blackberry jam. The chefs at the French restaur=
ants would dish up duck in purplish sauces, fill once rained-on noses wit=
h the baking aromas of g=E2teaux m??re de ronce. The whores might become=
known, affectionately, as blackberry tarts. The Teamsters could try to o=
rganize the berry pickers. And in late summer, when the brambles were pro=
liferating madly, growing faster than the human eye can see, the energy o=
f their furious growth could be hooked up to generators that, spinning wi=
th blackberry power, could supply electrical current for the entire metro=
polis. A vegetative utopia, that's what it would be, Seattle, Berry Town,=
encapsulated, self-sufficient, thriving under a l
iving ceiling, blossoms in its hair, juice on its chin, more blackberries=
- and more! - in its future. Consider the protection offered. What enemy=
paratroopers could get through the briars?
(From Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.)
