My Yams: A Journal

Precariously perched, my young yams sit in the fruit bowl I’ve placed them in after I casually purchased them from the grocery store. Dead they appear although very much alive inside. Like me. Sweet potatoes. So benign were my thoughts when I purchased them. They sit unsuspectingly dormant in the silver metal-mesh fruit basket beside my coffee maker betwixt a dark corner on my countertop next to my fridge. This is an area of my kitchen and of my apartment to which I pay little attention. Sweet scalloped potatoes I aim to make with them.

Update: One week passes by since their purchase. The days pass by. The days slowly add up to weeks. This morning is different though. As I prepare my coffee this morning, I see small purple tendrils. That’s odd. I could swear these yams didn’t come with purple sprouts on them when I bought them. The days turn into weeks. Each morning, the sprouts grow longer. They can’t be growing, I think to myself. They have no roots. No water. No light. No nourishment. How can this be?

Update: The weeks slowly turn into months. On this particular morning, I arise but the size of the tendrils summon my attention more sharply as I make my coffee. The central green tendril must be longer than it was before. I begin to notice their growth. My yams are sending me a message: “We are alive. I am alive. I’m still alive.” Alive. Just like me. The tendrils are talking to me now. The yams seek life desperately. Clinging to existence, my yams wish, want and need a higher power. These yams are still unwavering in their determination to live.

Update: The most major green sprout has grown out of the sweet potatoes and it’s so long now that it graces my coffee maker. Such a rough metallic human instrument is no place for a gentle sapling to be adventuring. I became curious and sympathetic. What can I do to save the lives of these sweet potatoes? I misjudged these them.

Update: Days later, emerge small veiny leaves out of the long green stems that once were short sprouts. They spread out through the dark of the corner of my countertop. These leaves express a statement. It’s a bold statement but sufficient enough to be comprehended. How quickly these plants have found my correspondence. They mold a message in my mind: we, the yams, have met you halfway and we’ve earned our freedom. Now you do your part, they say to me. “Take us the rest of the way.” I now suspect what my purpose is.

It’s the truest of truths: freedom is wanted by all. Our will that drives us daily to survive must also somehow be the pursuit of freedom. Death, as an opposite of life, must then be the cell of bondage. What should I do? Should I save these tiny creatures? Should I put them in a pot of soil?

Update: The longest and greenest tendril that used to poke the coffee maker now lies limply on the countertop. Will these organisms even know life again? The roots no longer remain. So, how can there be life here? What I do next I do because it is a canon of the universe. We all must remember the golden rule! I must treat others as I want to be treated. I irrationally hope this act of salvation will appease the gods and that my extrication of these plants will come back to extricate me in return. Aye. Although, I am wary that the gods do not return favor to men seeking selfishly to only improve their own circumstances. Rather, the higher authorities reward only the natural good-willed.

Very well. Decision done. I will save these sweet potatoes.

Update: I’ve purchased a large pot and filled it with soil. I’ve halfway submerged my remaining sweet-potatoes in mason jars that are filled with water as is directed by instruction on the internet as to how to grow yams. A troop of sweet potatoes in glasses sit on my balcony. However, the largest, most patriarchal aforesaid green stem that that has grown the longest I’ve detached from its potato and planted in the pot of soil.

Update: my sapling thrives! Every day, it’s green leaves grow bigger and in the pot and it grows multiple stems. For months, I enjoy this lovely green sight on my balcony. An emblem of strength sits on my balcony. In the daytime, pigeons come to sit on the edge of the pot looking to eat the black sunflower seeds that I provide them on the surface of my deck. I don’t know what’s to come next with these wonderful guys. I will always associate the summer of 2017 with my yams.

Update: Since the days are getting shorter, light no longer shines on my balcony where I had placed the pot containing the long impressive stem. I bought an artificial sunlight bulb from a garden store. Since yams must grow in a warm climate and it’s getting colder outside, I’ve placed the yams inside the house next to the window under the consistent rays of artificial light set on a timer of five hours of light per day. My yam plant is wilting so I’ve repotted the plant in a larger pot with nitrogen tablets and plant-eating bacteria killer.

Final Update: December 2nd: The plants are dead. They have left this planet. Their spirit is gone despite my efforts. I’ve failed. I’ve failed. My communion with them is no longer.

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Loneliness – Personal Blurb

[This passage was originally written in 2013/2014. This does not reflect my situation today.]

The coldness and desolateness of this place is literally tangible on your skin. Slowly and slowly it sets in. An emptiness is present, so ubiquitous, it pervades one’s soul. Hope continuously tries to flee my grasp. An appropriate simile would be trying to contain a colored gas escaping from a popped balloon as I fight to hold on to hope. A unnatural force seems to tear me away from hope. So then, Why do I fight back? Why do I resist? Ancient teachings compel me to enslave and dominate nature, so why do I struggle with it as through it is an equal adversary. Perhaps not only are my loved ones and my beloved far away from me. Perhaps my dreams are as well. Is there a connection between the distance between myself and my aspirations and the distance of the physical reality. Why do I appear to be the only restless one in this forsaken place?

Am I manly enough to endure what loneliness will bring? Are my layers thick enough to withstand an icy stillness so desolate? Is it better to be alone in which one requires strength or to live in joy and be weak? Won’t you free me, Lord? Have I not suffered enough?

Every morning into which I arise each day, a dark haunting arises with me. It is not what I’ve done in my past but rather what I have not done.

What am I to do? I feel completely forlorn by the people who bore me. What is my fate? Perhaps, what hurts me more than being alone is not being able to reach for help. I am not even able to express my problems with reasonable solutions to accompany them. Do I have the blood of a negro? Perhaps with death, the fear we have of it is the nothing which follows it.