Today I saw a flower of which I did not know the name. It had a low bushy frame, upon which were arranged five clusters of flowers, and each cluster thereof was a cone of which, from tip to hilt, the hue shifted from pink to orange, like little sunset spears. And it smelled nice.
I kept an eye out after that. I saw thick-veined viscera leaves, globes of baby blue asterisks, pale porcelain street lamps, leggy pom-poms with drooping heads—cheer up cheerleader! the bees love you for you!
My partner can put names to flowers, which is a kind of magic. The same is true for anyone familiar with birds and bugs (the kinds that aren’t ants or beetles or flies: the potpourri) and rocks and cetera. In my eyes, they have a claim to these subjects I do not.
The word for great subject knowledge is mastery. Is this mint or milkweed? The master knows. The flower belongs to its master, who keeps its name in a box. Master, master! Open the box! (Thankfully, the kind master made the front of glass.)
I am the kind of person who uses words without knowing their meanings, only their contexts. I have to describe the flower, and you have to find the flower. Without mastery, we cannot hold it: neither shape nor color will fix fast. (Master, the pins! the paraformaldehyde!)
Celds have few names for animals. There are cows, there are dogs, and there are beasts.
(The King of the Celds once named every animal, but these were lost.)
many images to follow
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| nazca, 180 BCE - 500 CE |
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