Model lawmower model. The aesthetic want of suburbian claritive affect and HOA rigour, which carries with its flat planescape of lawn a perhaps unsurprisingly well-kempt colonial history, is something my father insists upon, despite my and my brothers' protests... Read More

A list of flowers, store-bought and ready to die. These are not the native wildflowers I keep secretly wishing for. Much of time when i discuss rewilding, he has it in head something more plush and outwardly exonerable, and the more I bring it up with the more arcane an excuse he has... Read More

the routine of hose and shear, commanded of us. Ultimately, this all relates back to a anthrocopentric idea of ruling over the land you think you own... Read More

But,

Mortgage-rate house, whose fence we soon painted picket-white; I am often frustrated by my father's actions. It is not an sentiment unique to me, and us commiting labour for something onlky he was passionate about was never something I enjoyed. But it was undeniably his passion. I think out of all the times he restarted, all the panic-near-rage at his failures, the renovations and the commitments, there is something I can't help but to understand. Almost immediately, and bone-deep on an intuitive level. It may have just been circumstance and/or neccessary when his love (if not skill) for gardening flourished only when we moved to a house, but in the reservoir of empathy and patience I allot to my father the votary there understands that this is an immigrant's movement. To try to endow yourself, instill yourself into the roots themselves.

From HISTORIES & ABSENCE, a triple-threat of a final essay I made just a hop-skip-and-twirl away from now... but I still consider it juvenalia. "The furniture is sloughing into ash. I am in the middle of the room. My family wants to leave but we worked so hard to even get here. Sometimes I reimagine the soot into a yard of silk, its smoke trail to graze against my neck. Here there is twisting air. Here my father coddles his garden, having blackened into sticks. Here I conduct the faithful work of planting something I want to believe in. (See also: This Is Fine, KC Green)"