I'm growing this plant on my kitchen windowsill. Right above the big alabaster double-sinks, on the 80-year old wood ledge at the base of the sinlge plateglass windows. It gets cold in the kitchen during the winter, but the sun that beams through on that side of the house keeps the plant well.

I was sitting in the breakfast nook this morning, enjoying my 6am cup of coffee and relishing in that intense light that slides through during the early winter hours. Just basking, sipping, gearing up - when I heard the sound. It was loud, but clear and crisp. Almost like the world smallest firecracker had gone off in my inner ear. The tiniest assault rifle had been fired from withing my cochlea.

I looked up and noticed that a tiny shard of the clay pot holding my plant had splintered off into the sink. It clattered against the ceramic surface. I slid my glance back up to the pot, and I could actually see the roots pushing out on the potter. The stone was swelling, flexing on all sides. Jesus.

With a periceing crackle the potter finally shattered into countless micropebbles, red and burning, raining down on the room. Fire was literally falling from the ceiling in my kitchen, as was potting soil and the occasional leaf or root. I hid under the table and shut my eyes.

This isn't happening.

This isn't happening.

Posted by: shank at 08:40 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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