As I write this on paper on windy night, (please note that this was transcribed on to this blog post after being found in a deserted house), I hear that a major city in the north has lost its power. Again, that’s the second time in a week that a city has lost its services. Some say its terrorists, some blame another country, but I can’t say that. I know the truth. That is why I have to write it down, but not on a computer because that needs electricity. And what is out there, doesn’t need coal, it s just needs the water and the sun…
“That will never be. Who can impress the forest, bid the tree unfix his earthbound root?” Shakespeare, Macbeth
A month ago, maybe even more, there was, in this country, an unrecorded slaughter. A massacre. An armageddon. And those bodies, carcasses, mortal remains…those chassises of coiled DNA were bisected from their cultural roots, dragged from where they fell without words of thanks or ceremony. If they were lucky, their bodies were bagged up in cheap plastic liners, some may say biodegradable sleeves but I have seen the evidence. And loaded into refrigerated trucks, vans, pantechnicons without a parson to register the loss of life. They have come from nurseries small in size to the vast industrial sized spaces and now await their fate, we had a choice in this decimation. The government even sanctioned the removal of a hundred thousand of these bodies from their own dwellings. In Britain - be it on the highlands, the islands, the lowlands, on the estates - it is estimated that this number increases to six million living entities.
...wait, I think I just heard something outside the window, oh dear, sweet thing, don’t come yet...
Maybe I was just imagining things, I have been told the global numbers of this annual massacre include numbers of up to and over one hundred and eighty million. In 2009, Pakistan had a population of one hundred and eighty one million. Somewhere, these bodies lay either resplendent in death or piled on top of each other awaiting the next movement. Some may end up in a lay by on a dual carriageway, whilst others are awaiting to be taken to a house near you in exchange for money or a favour. You may even have one in your room.
...did you hear that, I am sure that was an explosion near me…oh no, now the lights have gone out…found a candle and some matches…I must finish this before they get too much closer…
Have you seen them bedecked in gaudy tinsel, their dehydrated limbs supporting glass and metal baubles, their desiccated needles pining for a forgotten fjord. It is said that some go bald, some are sprayed with flammable liquids to preserve their natural flora, the luckier ones get to keep their roots and maybe the same soil they grew up. But look out of your window, look at the glowing and blinking windows of the next door neighbours, imagine that you have can move back the net curtains to gain a better view. That plant, the humble Christmas tree, a Norwegian spruce of approximately six foot would have given you nineteen grams of oxygen per day. At night, it changes its natural mechanisms and produces fourteen of carbon dioxide. Imagine what that government sanctioned arboricide would have produced in oxygen. It was thought that mid November was when nature started fighting back, some say earlier than that. The plants started invading the cities more than people that thought they would. Britain is home to grasses and grasslands, but those grasses can grow at a great rate given the right conditions. Next time, if you get the chance, look out at a field and look at the blades of grass. How high are they? Ten, twenty maybe thirty centimetres, fifty centimetres. Look at that plot of ground, how many species of grass are there in that one area? They could be fifty species. All fighting for light, nutrition and water. Why do they call them blades?
…another noise, that sounded like breaking glass, a blast of cold air affronts my safety and security and then I hear the sound of sliding, whispering, the movement of something organic, I must concentrate…
The power stations near York succumbed to a plant infestation. The increased growth of the plants was blamed on urban terrorists. But maybe with an average growth of the bramble plant of three inches a day and agitated movement of the meristem helps the plant to move across the ground. Backward facing spines dig into all surfaces to gain purchase, to tear, to inflict damage. This is just one plant, coursing every forward on a mission of which it is the only one to know where it will end up and what it will do. Maybe it is the fairer winter weather conditions that has increased the growth. One newspaper website published a reader’s story where a single Mother had come downstairs to find thick ivy shoots that had pushed through the letter box and curled around the base of her Christmas tree.
…i can see, out of the corner of my eye, the rapidly moving bramble plant brush past yesterday’s newspapers that I was going to use for present wrapping, another punctured window and the temperature drops again, oh, what is that on my ankle…
Maybe it has something to do with the Christmas trees, maybe it is just time for nature to fight back
This may be partly fiction based upon fact and here are the links and facts that I used to create a Christmas ghost story: More than 180 million real Christmas trees are harvested worldwide each year. 6 million are sold in Britain. The Forestry Commission supplies 100,000; Once it has been cut, a Christmas tree will survive in the house for around ten days. the world’s largest Christmas tree is 362 feet high in Mexico City; assuming it’s indoors, a typical 6 foot Norway Spruce will emit around 19 grams of oxygen in a single day, and 14 grams in carbon dioxide in night (AQA text service, text 63336) ; http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p004gx5p ; http://www.independent.co.uk/news/science/the-botanist-who-hunts-for-giant-trees-at-kew-gardens-9938031.html ; I tried to write a Christmas Ghost Story that M. R. James would have written if he had been a botanist, Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year and watch out for the brambles.
(c) 21/12/14
