cimorene

this story by viridian contains, in passing, some strong criticism of kuzu that makes me bristle, confused, half-amused and half-genuinely offended. on one hand you have to hate that it kills trees, right, but then--there's no forest, no side of the road, that's not draped with a waving blanket of green, over telephone poles and wires, rippling gently over the side of a drainage ditch, wrapped like a lover into a metal chain-link fence. i don't know. it's beautiful. there are some things about alabama--culture, whatever--that are disgusting, and yes, i'd move away and never come back if not for my parents, but. i grew up here, and the scenery is one thing i love. i love the roads hemmed in by pine trees and kudzu and tall grass baked gold and green and brown, the air so heavy it buzzes, the sky so white it hurts your eyes like beaten metal. i love the gentle hilliness of the land and the sparkling cleanness of the the air and the way the sun turns water droplets from the hose in the summer, when you're washing your car, into a fine rain of pregnant droplets of honey. summer is a sensuous season and alabama is a sensuous place, and kudzu is--kudzu is a part of it.