Rock and Plant Writing Exercise

Rock and Plant Writing Exercise
I. Rock

Upon first sight, this pebble looks like it would crumble in my hand. There are streams of cracks, jagged like lightning, that vein through the stone. It has the color of sand, but I can’t be certain because I’m colorblind. Its smoothness is tranquil. My fingers search for deviation, but find nothing. It is as perfect as a sphere, yet it is not. A thousand years of slumber at the bottom of a stream have worn it down to perfection. And in a thousand more, it will be no more, sediment at the bottom of the ocean, or crystals in a child’s sandcastle. I wish I could squeeze it and make a coin appear. That would truly be magic, not like the myriad of card tricks and coin illusions I perform alone. It would change the world. Nature would change the world. Rocks would speak and walk among us. Nature and money would co-exist, like the shades of brown that penetrate this stone.

II. Plant

The problem with being handed a random plant is that I always think it’s weed. Not that I smoke it. In fact, I’m sure if I did there would be no confusion. The configuration of the leaves, like fingers, explode at the top of the stem, like green fireworks. The leaves are jagged and dull with a power matte finish. The aroma reminds me of high school graduation; my neck overwhelmed by leis – orchids, ti leaves, and plumerias all craving for my attention.

The leaves at the bottom of the stem are lonely. The contrast between the traffic on the top of the plant and the barrenness of the bottom is striking. The top: a jungle. The bottom: wrinkled fingers, a hospice. I wonder if they were once the top of the plant, accompanied by friends and family, engulfed in Life’s attention. I wonder if they enjoyed the morning sun radiating down upon them. I wonder how cold the bottom of the stem now is.

They sag, holding on to each other and the plant by a few brown fibers. As I pull them off, one by one, they show no resistance. They submit, let go, and lay quietly on the table. Piled on each other, they sleep, remembering and reminiscing on the old days.

The bottom is now bare. And as I spin the stem between my smooth, nimble fingers, it dances, like a fairy, to the music of a million flowers.

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