Out of sight and covered by clouds, the leaves multiply with incredible vigor. They come without warning, the sycamore and zelkova trees brimming with new leaves; like wriggling creatures they well up and overflow, sparkle. From a distance, I see the air suddenly converge, black clusters overlapping into darkness, which then gradually spreads towards the hills. It seems to transform into a thicket, though it is unclear whether there is a large thicket or if it is a row of trees. At times the sky is so tall and distant, it would seem it got so dirty because something injured it. The hollow below is a field, youthful like the breast of a pigeon, and the city ladies raise their brows and say things like, Why, isn’t that just like the Spada Cape. Sitting on their picnic blankets, eating sandwiches and chocolates, they discuss the lovely weather, and how organdy fabric butterflies are going to be in fashion this summer. All this time, a fountain of green rotates ceaselessly, with the sheen of newspapers being churned out of a rotary press.
I feel dizzy knowing of the varied and repeating lives of the infinite morning plants. There are no human footsteps, no scent of butter or cheese, but nonetheless as I regard their stifling propagation, their battles and exultations, I am on the brink of losing. Outside the house, yet so very near to us, they align their menacing footsteps, moaning in inexplicable gloom, forcing me to keep watch outside. I wonder how long it’s been since I was dragged in and ensnared by such surroundings. The only things I can see without noise or deception, aside from the air and sky and trees and grass, are their flowing colors and rough, lurid shapes. With a strange intensity, they shove me out the door, making me sad, making me angry.
When I slowly open my eyes, as if goaded into it, there is a simple exchange of greetings with nature, close to my eyelids. I feel that I have awakened. Then the ceiling, stained yellow from the leaking rain, and the walls covered with small nail holes, are gradually absorbed by the weak violet light trying to wake up, receding further and further away. I feel I have lost something I should not have allowed to escape. Just like when a child clings to the hopes of being reunited with some lost object. Even as I long to grasp it, it feels tepid like lukewarm water, and nothing ever returns. As my upper body suddenly grows lighter, I am unable to remember anything, and there is no longer any appeal in the fact of its passing. And then the woods and sun and fence appear vividly as if they had been left behind from an early morning dream.
Those nearby will likely continue their usual, gentle repetitions. These clustered shapes of plants should have nothing to do with me, but somehow I feel the need to be cautious of each and every one, as if I am bound to them. I grow drowsy watching over the moving tips of treetops, and every day as I mumble to myself, the day comes to an end.
The elm tree in the center spreads its stiff branches like a wedding veil, and weeds surround the base of the tree like the teeth of a saw. The dots of color that mark the unkempt grass—dahlias, columbines, white nettle, rushes—spin like plastic toys. Indeed space is unable to drop away and cut its ties to the leaf veins, placed as it is atop the tangled mesh. I contemplate how the small existence of ants moving back and forth between the blades of grass occupies most of space. I had not been aware of such narrow and dark paths—there is ongoing life for those walking the wire beyond the notice of humans, that could be erased at the flick of a finger and without a trace—if the chestnut flowers should for no reason cluster and fall on them, the insects, all the more hidden from view, will time and again move on to the next blade. What are you thinking, and where are you headed? No matter how meaningless your beginnings may have been, try not to lose hope before ascertaining your direction.
It arrives as a matter of course, returns without going astray, and what’s more, has unceremoniously traveled around the world—the season, when it explodes into an overabundance of sprouts and seedlings, has us hoping for the vibrant construction of plant matter. And with the same kind of speed: all the plants in this world of avarice manage to share their fine downy tufts in every which direction, guiding people to point their gaze elsewhere. But before we could take notice, through our preconditioned field of vision, it was replaced with something unfamiliar, and thus we have come to crave freedom and an intensity of color.
I see the day break through the shaggy, frizzy green gates. Dawn, emerging from the depths of the atmosphere and flowing gently like clearing mist, is a beautiful labyrinth. People tend to think unseemly things when encountering something that is too beautiful. I wonder if something bad happened while we were sleeping. It seems calm on the surface, but only because it conceals a secret, this quietude brimming with eerie uncertainty. I might get murdered if I don’t let out a scream soon. I am steeped in this stagnant air—why do I not resist. We are possessed and trapped by the suffocating, humid sweat of the grass as it wells up from the ground—the plants steal all human vitality, and stage a grand banquet without end.
In a flash I come to believe that trees have blue blood coursing through them. For they speak in such a prophet-like manner. Because the tree sap stains the scant skin and muscles of our bodies, my hands swell up, my heart is so cold it’s about to tear apart. On farms in the North, they say that wheat must be quickly harvested and dried, lest the calves come tearing through the fence. And that wool scarves should be prepared. Soon the snow will come in and winter-burn the trees.
The women have taken to planning their days around patterns in the sky, or the colors of flowers. They worry about the state of the weather, measuring warmth or coldness at the tips of their fingernails. They believe that there is some kind of promise or communication that connects the scene outside their windows with the color of their clothes or lipstick, or even the placement of furniture. They believe that they must stay in harmony with these gradations that constantly control them. At times they try to bloom more beautifully than a flower. This is why, as they gaze at the colors of flowers or watch a tree growing, their skin and their movements are changing, all of their own accord.
The plants grow with so much vigor and abundant change that it renders me unable to read books or smoke cigarettes. As I try to not miss a single small movement of their expressions—their swaying branches, their envelopment in flames—my own expressiveness grows utterly useless, and even if I laugh, or raise my hand, it seems I am merely imitating their expressions. There is not a single thing that is mine, I am simply repeating their movements, stealing their expressions. I can no longer tell which is the shadow of which. There is nothing I have given them. And yet I have accepted everything they do. Sooner or later I shall transform into a tree and disappear into the grove. All this time I had believed I was alive, and yet perhaps I do not even exist. The mere shadow of a tree, the ghost-like figure that crawls the ground only in the afternoon—these too will soon grow invisible. Eventually, the wisdom of the trees will pass, up and above our heads. People will lose their equilibrium, almost toppling over, and stagger forward, pressing their hats against their heads. I learned that the passion I had long devoted to humans did not amount to much; it was like the time I regretted the injury to my finger from scraping at shards of glass.
After every face and every incident has been forgotten, the first memories to emerge are forms of nature, like the shape of a mountain or the size of a tree. And then, various events, buildings, and food are drawn out, like yarn being spun, and humans peer in between, in confusion, and then it turns into a languishing memory. If the past is to be discarded like a worn scrap of air, I wonder what kind of conversation would be the most comforting to the aging. The reason why people stare back into the distance until their scars are shining brilliantly is because each person holds in their heart the belief that our youthful adolescence lies in the direction where the flowers are blooming.
The rain washes the trees all day, and begins its duet with the earth. Out of nowhere, or in bits and pieces, a rhythmical wave surges forward, coloring the plants in reds and yellows. The cheerful music that we desire and where we want to linger seems to be quickening the seasons by quite a bit. I could no longer make out the voices. Autumn has only just begun, but there are coals in the stove, and the entire family has come out on the balcony to listen to the simple tune played by invisible strings. A branch like a steel frame hangs from the sky, and the fabric of the awning is removed. The elm tree is now naked. Time here seems to pass in the direction of the leaves falling. In their hearts, everyone laments their age. Because one ring is a souvenir of a lively day, but also becomes a chain tying us to the past. All that has faded scatters in the sky, waiting for the final cadence. The hollow echoes approaching gradually seem like desolate melodies wandering between the trees—are they changes in nature, or a regulated order longing for radiant dreams upon my lips.