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an oak tree. I don’t know whether to call it tobacc-oak or
oak-bacco.”
Sure enough, there was an oak tree a couple of yards
high with tobacco leaves coming out of it.
“It’s not a graft, it’s more like a merge. One plant just
invades and takes over another. It’s like one crystallizes
inside the other. It only takes a minute, and it’s done.”
“It’s only possible to do this because it’s near the solstice
and the full moon—the time of greatest carnality. Nature
is tied up into everything, especially now. The reason it’s so
windy today is because of reaction to the unfair redistrict
ing plan.”
He stopped to roll an oak-bacco cigarette.
“Nature has emotional needs at this time of year,” he
said, “just like us. Everything is changing, and our emo
tions are changing, too. That’s why the ancients had human
and animal sacrifices at the solstice. When people witness
suffering and death, it generates a lot of emotion, and it
helps the bioenergy field adjust to the change. Better that
way than to let nature make its own suffering. Sacrifice
gives the whole community a sense of peace and harmony.
“You can merge a plant and an animal, too,” he said.
“Look at this tree.”
It was shaped in a strange way, with four small trunks
coming out of the ground and merging into a big trunk,
with branches and leaves all over it.
“That’s my dog. I merged him with a tree, a possumhaw,
Ilex decidua.”
Up close, I could see the outlines of a head covered with
bark, with knot holes for eyes, a knob for the snout and
a deep cleft for the mouth. I could see teeth inside the
mouth.
“The bones and teeth stay pretty much the same. The
wood’s more flexible, though. He can move some. Scratch
his head.”
I felt bad about what he had done to his dog. It wasn’t
right. I rubbed the bark around his head, and the long
branch at the tail end started to wag slowly, back and forth.
Andrew came closer, and the wind picked up, the gusts
growling in the trees overhead. The mouth of the dog-tree
began to drip sap.
“Yeah, he’s kind of slavering.”
The wind rose to a snarl, and the tree bent forward
in a lunge, closing the jaws on Andrew’s hand. The more
he pulled to get free, the harder the wind blew, until he
screamed and yanked it out, all bloody and smeared with
sap.
He looked surprised and raised his arms over his head.
He never moved again. I watched his skin get dry and rough
and crinkled like the bark of a tree. Branches and leaves
began to sprout. His face merged with the curve of the
trunk, with knot holes for eyes, a bump for a nose and a
deep crease for a mouth.
Some things don’t change. People do need to get
together and share emotions and sacrifice—that’s the
Christmas spirit.
They look good now, decorated with little red berries
against the green leaves, like a family dressed up for
Christmas.
Everytime I think about them, I get a sense of peace and
harmony.
Don’t You Love
(Him) Madly?
By Natalie Sadler
“He’s just a bunny.”
I’ve gotten that answer from a lot of people when I talk
about my furry creature. To be fair, I love ALL furry/feath
ered/scaled/hairless animals. Unfortunately, if your pet
isn’t a cat or dog, they’re taken less seriously by pet retail
ers, some veterinarians and the general public.
Animals like Morrison are treated like “expendable pets.”
I’ve spoken to many people who assume rabbits have a
short lifespan of only a year or two. They’re advertised as
“animals that belong in cages” by most chain pet stores.
That’s so far from the truth—my lionhead rabbit,
Morrison, is living proof of that.
Rabbits are smart. Really smart.
Morrison is a three-year-old ball of energy. He’s com
pletely litterbox trained. I can’t remember how long it took
him to learn, but it was probably under a month or so. He
knows where he goes!
He also knows his schedule to a T. My little monster will
literally jump onto my bed at 7 a.m. and lick me awake to
get his breakfast.
He sings for his supper—or his salad, or his breakfast
or for the various “nanner” (aka banana) slices he gets for
treats.
If his meals aren’t on time? My little Karen will tell me
all about it. In “bunny language,” their feet-thumping is the
equivalent of a certain four-letter word.
He isn’t always a “can I speak to your manager” brat. In
fact, he’s one of the cuddliest, most loving and loyal ani
mals that I’ve ever owned.
I grew up with a crazy, Cujo-esque corgi named Kramer.
I loved that dog like a brother (maybe because I’m that
weirdo, only child). But I could probably count the number
of times that he licked me—he wasn’t very affectionate.
Morrison? He probably gives me upwards of 500 daily
kisses. When he wants a “grooming session,” he takes it
seriously. These sessions are how rabbits communicate
with each other, and are even how they establish social
dominance.
Morrison is 10/10 the boss of me, I’m just his mom. But
I’m his mom who loves him to the moon and back.
This summer, Morrison gave me one of the biggest
scares of my life. Without going too far into the medical
details, he had an emergency GI stasis episode caused by
spurs on his molar teeth. He wasn’t eating or pooping at all.
Rabbits have extremely delicate digestive systems, and if
they go for more than eight hours without consuming food
and passing stool... well, it can be fatal.
He was hospitalized at an emergency vet hospital for
five days. It was a terrifying and gut-wrenching time for me
(pun unintended). I can’t imagine how Morrison felt, sick
and suddenly stuck with IV tubes, far away from home.
I’ve had Morrison since 2018.1 got him from a family
friend during my sophomore year of college, which was a
rough time mentally and emotionally. I took him in without
thinking much about it. Little did I know that the tiny, five-
month-old furball would become my closest companion.
My little fighter pulled through this summer, and all’s
well that ends well! He’s got a long lifespan ahead of him.
If rabbits are properly taken care of, they can live up to 10
years or more. Maybe Morrison will make it to 27, like his
namesake—who knows!
All I know is that he’s not “just a bunny.” He’s my very
best friend (who will be getting his highly anticipated, daily
salad as soon as I finish writing this sentence).
Relics
By Kathryn Kyker
In the orange hat you hate I sit
on the beach of broken trees bordered
by rubble of a road that drove
too close to the sea. Today’s victims
of water’s whimsy are jellyfish baked
on dry sand. Death: past, present, and
future, as the eyes of so many birds track
my every move. You ask if I am afraid
as you leave me here alone. “Something in
the human psyche loves a ruin.” In the
final poses struck by twisted limbs reaching,
gasping for soil not sand, water not salt, and
in the crumble of man made stones in the
surf, I find strange comfort, and I am not
afraid: “The only thing to come now is the sea.”
(last line from Sylvia Plath’s “Blackberrying,”
earlier quote unknown, possibly Coleman Barks)
Ben Kweller’s Pants
By Sean Hribal
It’s up to me if I decide to be what I think is right.
— Ben Kweller
April 1, 2004, Pittsburgh, PA: Ben Kweller co-headlined
with Death Cab for Cutie for the last big show at Club Laga,
Pittsburgh’s bigger, more industrial version of Caledonia
Lounge. As a working-class city, Pittsburgh has never been
at the forefront of fashion and, at this point, was in a post
grunge hangover, as you could tell by my CD cases: Alice
in Chains, Tool, Radiohead, Bright Eyes. Heavy alternative
rock was giving way to indie singer-songwriters, but baggy
and boot-cut jeans were still the norm.
I was leaning on the balcony rail above the stage, watch
ing roadies check mics and tune up guitars. The crowd was
in a weird mood. Everyone was hugging. Girls whispered
about Ben Kweller. Guys talked about Death Cab.
Death Cab came on stage. The drums rolled up, and a
guitar chord struck the room twice. Ben Gibbard sang, “So
this is the new year,” and the crowd fell right in. We voy
aged through the songs of Transatlanticism, soaking up the
architecture and energy of our beloved club. At the end of
the set, the crowd was hopeful but weary. We were ready for
Kweller.
A lone keyboard was set up onstage. A tall guy with
moppy hair walked over to the keyboard in the tightest
pants anyone in the room had ever seen. Every single
person looked at the person beside them and said, “Oh
my God. Look at Ben’s pants.” Despite the reactions, he
slammed down on the keys, and the whole place rocked out.
The murmuring over Kweller’s pants returned between
each song. There were so many questions. So much con
fusion. People began to shout things about the pants. I
couldn’t tell if Kweller was terrified or loving it. Or both.
And, you know, that’s probably a normal reaction for
anyone experiencing Pittsburgh for the first time. After
“Commerce, TX,” a woman yelled out above the crowd, “Tell
us about your pants!” He dismissed the remark and started
singing, “When I was an astronaut...”, and we all sang
along.
When the song was over, Kweller looked at us and
answered the girl’s earlier question, “They’re girls pants.”
And the crowd went wild.
Something in us changed that night. I don’t know if
I can express what it was exactly. It’s not like Pittsburgh
guys started wearing skinny jeans or stopped listening to
Pearl Jam, but our minds had been opened. Our worldview
16 FLAGPOLE.COM | DECEMBER 29, 2021 & JANUARY 5, 2022