Shouting at the Ground (II)
Yet another instance of pastoral kvetching
Scratches girdle my forearms, a keepsake from the hopvines I have to clear away. Their leaves and stems have a scabrous texture, like sandpaper, typical of a hop variety imported then left to run rampant more than century ago. The purpose of this introduction seems mysterious, unknowable through methods rational or otherwise, as if the historian of American agriculture has to guess about it forever, even though cursory research would reveal how and a why; it just seems insane.
The vines heap themselves into a mat behind the house, spilling from the property above and down a retaining wall, onto the patio, their tendrils intertwining across the concrete. Beneath them slime accumulates, releasing an earthy smell, enough to pull you underground by the nose, a subterranean odor, the manic growth and decay of these vines generating another layer of soil, venereal soil, waterlogged and mucosal (even in this heat) breeding mosquitoes. These increase with every square foot I clear. They raise red welters across my neck and ears, across the forearms, every exposed piece of skin an irritated mass, soon peeling under the noonday sun. I should have put on long-sleeves.
This operation—clearing brush—requires the opposite of style, the opposite of nuance; it requires a machete, drawn and swung in broad strokes, the movements repeated ad infinitum—physical cliche. The hops themselves propagate by their own idiotic method; they propagate vegetatively, through their vines, a clonal mat with no directive but growth, following sunlight and water until the whole property is engulfed. Ruder forms survive. I swing the blade, hazarding my shins, caught up in a mental as well as physical momentum, which propels me through this thicket. A task done poorly is its own reward.
The sun dips down.. A chill runs down my back, the sweat a perceptible weight on it. I dump the last of the vines into contractor bags, the rasping vegetation nearly puncturing the plastic. My sedentary life resumes—television, these recent lectures on geochemistry, and a preprepared dinner (noodles). One last mosquito, escaping the evening chill, flies into my ear canal, putting a coda on the day. Even so I’ll sleep well (for once) all the bedsheets tossed aside, the windows propped open. A breeze off the patio carries that subterranean odor indoors. It colors the air with a vegital tint, which is so rich and deep that it blots out the light completely.
