There is a developing argument in the other world - which is a place where I have come to think 'professional' means 'tenure is two weeks in Cancun and BMW rental' - that indeed perhaps "The Secret Life of Plants" might not have been so much geriatric mumbo-jumbo. The neurology of things that live, the 1973 best selling thesis claimed, might reach beyond creatures whose children we people think cuddly. And sure you can hook up the Aspidistra to a lie detector and watch it squirm while your Mega Mouth Juicer does it's work on your half pound of carrots. And if you are completely insane you can pipe what the puerile call classical music through the electric to your Crucifers in the belief you are offering them a calm. My own choice in this area would be The Ramones or The Clash or Cherubino singing to a voluptuous Susanna, or an Ankole drummer getting his spear ready to dance, a dust and heat, I yearn for.
Then, if you are like me, you can enter the world of the universal where you can
collect cold Potato Rocks, call them cousins and tell them about the geometry of
slopes in places that are random. Which can be lonely, because through the
years far from bonding with my clan, I have developed allergies to nut eaters
and their mostly transparent commercial enterprises, that too often include the
word 'angel' and the word 'spiritual' in preparation for a crash course with the
devil on marketing, followed by a visit to heaven's representative on
earth, or the bank manager. Nor am I prone to fall for Goethe's Poet, "What
genuine is, posterity will cherish." I'll tell that dreamer too that I don't
give a rat for "words that are fitly mated." And yes there is a disconnect
in me that more often than not is resolved by a well cut double trench and that
cruel and unusual punishment I have learned to call "Compost."