So I moved to Minneapolis. What's up with that?
I work for a flower giant. That's right, I finally landed a full time
gig after breaking my ass for about six months on the keel-haul
of 21st century broke-assedness. Word, that shit was crazy.
What about this Flower Giant, you might ask?
Those of you who've dorked out on the various fantasy games--
you may have heard of Frost Giants, Hill Giants, Fire Giants, Stone Giants, and yet--
Ferdinand the Bull aside, Flower Giants have been conspicuously absent
from the giant diaspora.
Okay, I work in a flower warehouse. But the company is huge,
the facility is easy to get lost in, and there is an ATV called The Gator
there employed to maintain 20-odd acres of grounds.
The oxygen levels, I am sure,
are way the F higher than any other workplace I've worked,
to be sure; the people are as awesome and interesting as the air
is rich, as the building is confusing, as the bouquets-- of which
I handle a Jillion per day-- are beautiful.
This kicks office work in the boo-tay!
Oh my God.
I remember summer a year ago,
working as a program assistant at a Madison nonprofit office
which was literally 500 feet from a Beach. Yah, it was over-run
with algae, and there was a giant dumpster literally stinking with it,
but my point here is that the people in this office--
bless their hearts-- were perfectly content to eat their lunch in air conditioning--
it seemed, to live their lives indoors, when all of nature was busting out and
somehow, begging for our attention.
So the organic environment's working for me.
Part of me thinks, well, it's a bit like the Matrix in here, isn't it?
Channeling all this life bred for beauty
through this corporate machine
but honestly, the flowers don't seem to mind.
I haven't carried on any in-depth conversations with them,
but by all evidence they are absolutely Blooming.
Yes, but what fate will they endure?
Well, they'll be kept alive long enough to be purchased
by a vendor, who will sell them to a customer, who will
in all likelihood give them to his or her lover who will
love the shit out of them.
Or maybe they'll go to a funeral parlor, where all these
desperately sad people will find comfort in the shocks
of color so brilliant that they will remember a time when
they were blooming, when their dearly beloved was blooming,
and these plants will, like the floral ministers they're bred to be,
will either deepen the journey or soften the pain of the mourning.
I'm reminded, strangely, of a fictional organization
in James Clavell's novel, Shogun, called the Amida Tong.
This crazily secretive group of assassins essentially trained
from childhood to carry out a single assassination, after which
they would chomp a poisonous (cyanide?) capsule & die on the spot.
Well I think these bouquets are something like that.
They're bred their whole existences to meet some crazy intense
human need, and yes, they fade and croak in vases all across the
world where they might have flourished in the wild
(or been blown to fucking smithereens by some extraneous
but I guess I'm getting good vibes from the flowers at this point.
More on this later.