We are an open-ended assemblage-as they define us nowadays-that is possibly impossible to fully grasp. Our behavior is more unpredictable than people may think. They all grow in our shade, which we offer as a protection from winter frost. But if the flower is nothing but a sexual organ, doesn’t all this have the appearance of an unconscious adoration, by tradition or by instinct, of sex? 1Īmong the little flowers are our best and sometimes precocious friends: violets, bells, primroses, periwinkle, snowdrops, anemones, columbine and goldenrod, yellow digitalis, lily of the valley, and fragrant rennet. Where there is a house there is a garden, more or less large, and from the garden one expects, in the propitious season, the joyful merry bursting of the flower buds. You can also find them nestled among the pages of a much-loved book, preserved, dry, almost unrecognizable. As one friendly scholar has written:įlowers are very much part of our daily life: they adorn our laden tables, the living rooms of houses…They are the most welcome gifts they are part of the most attractive wedding ceremonies. It has something to do with sex and our fellows, the flowers. We are relational, and kind of holistic a complex complex.ĭespite its vulgarization, something valuable remains in the concept of the brothel. We might be coherent, but only as a whole. We have our own story, but beware: we are moody, changeable, and bizarre, so please do not expect a logical and consistent plot. If you want to consider us as a home, you can, but we are an open and variable one. Indeed, words travel, and in some cases, they go towards unthinkable directions, such as this one that describes us as a melting pot, an astonishing chaos of little beautiful living things. As much as a word might change meaning, ours is the oldest. Not a vulgar one, as people might describe it today, but a welcoming place, open to relationships. Our brothel is an authentic one, a little sweet home a wooden shack in the forest. I would like to think of us as a brothel. We are messy, funny, shady, but light-hearted. They are that kind of diverse crew that you want to hang out with. What is our story exactly? Who is this “we” in this understory? There is stem tissue, a minuscule insect, little leaves, fungi, and a myriad of tiny creatures that the human eye cannot entirely grasp. I repeat, I would not do it but I risk creating more embarrassment and being perceived as haughty if I do not. Yet, I am compelled to say the truth about myself.
In all honesty, I feel no pleasure in doing it.
Now, I take the opportunity to tell my own story. I was probably considered too young, a novice. Once upon a time, I was with a plethora of very well-known scholars and they were stepping on me.
I have to write a story I am not entitled to tell.
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