My Flowery Soul

My Flowery Soul…

You know, it might sound funny or weird or what else? It is really something ´other`. Very often I have been called a Tulip or a Rose or a Lilac. It was very odd, but no. I could not think about just being a woman being picked because I had beauty or because I had sex appeal.

Right on the spot of my own being I craved to be like a female flower. FF. Female flower – see!

I had nothing to do as I lived out in that very small county, well small when it came down to meadows and such. Anyhow it gave me a lust to write poetrie. And my poems gave me a glance from the floral world. I was simply not that human, to no one at all.

I stood there in the garden in front of that huge, if not grand, home of ours. And I had an odour of my own. It spread a perfume on each and every visitor. Oh big issue out there! All you who address youselves as something from the world of Mankind – who are you actually? Do you regard the human affairs to be better than me? Being vegetablic and plantics and green and on top of me - all those glorious colours from a tone of such a something. No?

Well, I am. A flowery plant. Green and nice. I take comfort in my rosy being. I take much of my own liking in being absolutely the ´other.` Well, that´s it today, right? Radical thoughts even among you...

The splendid thing about being different is what I have noticed. All and everyone out there wish and wants and wed. I wed the man who comes along and noticed I am here to be picked. I am of that passive sort, don´t you know. What else could I have become?

While other girls try their best to become like men and blokes and guys and lads, I have come to another conclusion. I am to go back to the vegetative way of learning things. Be just like a flower and all the living creatures will or shall or must adore you. You know why? I can tell you why…

Mankind has destroyed the earth. So if girls just turned back to Nature itself they would damn it notice how screwed up everything else is. Return to the Garden of the Earth! Christ! Belive it or not, but this is my thesis of Biology. For sure. No kiddin´. No nothing else. Just standing there being blown by the four different winds. You still refuse to see what I mean? Well up to you sister…

Oh yes, loads of Western men ought to know it. Femaleshipness belong more to the soil and the flowery things and as they stand apart from Mankind they have to be a gift. A gift to the magic in it.

Well, I might be silly. I might be stupid. But that´s it now, Mary.

Hmrf, yes. I guess it is from my Viking, Polish and Sicilian origin I speak. But I won´t speak up. I refuse to kill you. I am not here to torture you. I am not down on earth to opress anyone. Be like a plant and be as passive as possible and you shall do no harm.

I guess I am dreaming about a man who shall see what I mean. Not a spoiled one who boasts and brags about belonging to the human race. A flower has no race, no nothing like that at all….See!

Not being could be the last threat to anyone who strives to become perfect…

But no, you could let me wave her alongside the grass, the green, green grass of home.

Slender and petals of faith, that´s me...Flowery soul combined with a stalk fastened to the ground, the very landscape. Smolandic garden to me, right on this spot. I agree. It is crazy well well, it might be queer. As someone changing her sex, her very gender because the rest they eat holy cows. But me. The cows prosper because of my red rosy soul. Red like a heart is read, yellow the next spring because of envy. One-legged flower within feminine´s way of living. Even the Aristocrats knew of how to sit or stand or just be. Even working class women fell back on Nature itself to escape the big war. And to escape Industry and Colonialism and Imperialism. Wo-man-folks had to get away, into the passive circles of life. Like plants of course.

I guess now you have come to see what I am hinting at.

A rose is a rose is a rose. Now I have that very fragmentic feeling into femininity. Feels hot blood in my plant´s pulses. My veins of juice from the very ground occur inside of me. Give me a sip of sap, as Erica Jong may have said it. Sipper of my sap, will you? If you are that bold and brave of course, to sink to my grassery Walt´s level. It´s American isn´t it? To be millions of tons of grass sweeping alongside the rivers, the mountains, the cities perhaps.

So there in a lost garden might be a promise, a gift for every girl like me. For every man who has an experience of torture or pain or shell shocks, No? Would he not prefer the soul of a tulip? A fever of the multitude. Fever. Feel it into you! Just for once!

Oh well. You are horrified by my mere words? To become like a plant? It gives you shrugging feeling from within. To shrug it off of you. This about not wanting to be passive, but still alive and alert when it comes down to the six senses. The sixth of it tells me I am someone to the Water Bearer´s oak...Tells me I am of a land with pretty flowers. Sweden – my Eden! Long gone and long lost. But how are we to gain back respect from the Nature? How about giving it a try!

Try to tune into the soul of the Flower. It costs nothing, nothing at all. But might give you an odd sense of a new gift. Well...