Grape Feet
These grapefruit (Citrus X paradisi) begin their slow maturing process on the branches of a ten foot tall grapefruit tree planted on this piece of ground some untold years ago. The fruit of this tree are filled with seeds, no one would want to buy such a fruit. But to taste them, so says their current owner, is to know the glandular paradise from which they got their latin name. They are a newcomer to the fruit tree world, a hybrid between the orange tree (Citrus sinesis) and pummelo (Citrus maxima), cultivated in the 19th century and brought to Florida just before the turn of the twentieth. This tree species is a hybrid that counted on human intervention for its range, some might say even its existence. They are one hundred percent sensitive to frost, which significantly limits their northward range (although, one can imagine them giggling with delight at the current warming projections). Grapefruit branches, like all citrus branches, are thorny shoots that slowly fill into the familiar woody tree like branches. They are an evergreen, with hearty crisp dry leaves that seem to survive into the growth of new shoots, and then yellow and fall. Their roots are near the surface and cannot be covered too deeply or the tree will suffocate. They breathe oxygen through their roots and absorb water from the air. This very tree hosts at least two anole territories, it is a constant perch for the mourning doves that gather food from this piece of land, and it already holds several dozen green grapefruit. It marks a place of human habitation and reveals the gentle hand of cultivation and care. It seems untroubled by the passage of time or the heat of the midday sun.

The message is said to be clear in Connecticut. No war. No complicity with war. Can the elections hang on such an idea? These violent scrambles, the justified and unjustified bloodshed and revenge, Pyhrric victory or nothing, goes the logic. Generations of more hatred cast in stone, shattered into memory with each exploding shell and tearing bullet. What point language if intelligence is unwilling to head its logic. Why bother talking if pre-emption now rules the day. Here's the real question: why launch your killing attacks - well-timed, extensively destructive, that is, pre-planned - from a narrative of defensiveness? What holds back your courage to admit your own honest goals? There is something in that; I know that there is. There is a nugget of fear, which is our only leverage; the fact of demos lurks menacingly just beyond the corner of control. The gentle hand of cultivation makes delicious treats such as this Hudson red grapefruit tree; may it also work its magic on stubborn minds and greedy interlopers. A plea for reason and rationality in the months ahead. A plea for the peace that most of us deserve.