I am quite obsessed with the idea of wisteria. It’s beautiful – pink-purple blossoms, cascading like a waterfall, vines on a beautiful country house. It’s gorgeous. I remember seeing it on TV once, and thinking of how lovely it was – why wouldn’t everyone get wisteria on their house? I then remember seeing it in person, and I recognised it instantly from the TV. I must have seen it before, when I was younger, but not recognised it. Now it had a name, it stood out to me whenever I saw it, and I seemed to see it more and more once I was aware of it. Like it had been hiding in plain sight the whole time.
I saw it on the news. I think Shakespeare’s house had wisteria. It made the news, as they had to get some gardeners to come in and kill it. It was gorgeous, but it was deadly.
By many measures, wisteria is a weed.
Wisteria is an aggressive and determined plant. It grows quickly, but takes a long time to flower. It climbs seemingly unaffected by gravity. But it’s persistent. It’s relentless. It grows into any space it can find, forcing hairline cracks into gaping holes, tearing facades clean off homes. It’s a shame really, because it is so beautiful. There’s a parallel in there somewhere, but I forget – something about how fleeting beauty is, or something about how quickly and parasitic something can be. I’m not sure.
I wonder, when wisteria grows, and infects a building, at what point do the two become inseparable? Is there even any utility at being able to draw the line between where the wisteria ends and the bricks begin? They’re still both useless and intrinsically tied together.
I wonder if my facade is afflicted by wisteria. I feel cracks sometimes, but I can’t find the root. I wonder what it is, and I wonder if it’ll grow. I wonder if it’ll keep spreading until there’s nothing left of me – until I become inseparable from the thing that’s sprawled over my skin and in my pores.