As regular readers will remember, Wit was born in (and of) the wild, and therefore maintains undomesticated swaths of self as wide as newly discovered North Americas. There are the witch haunted woods so eldritchly illustrated by Arthur Rackham, Nathaniel Hawthorne stories of the supernatural spaces inside the awful American unconscious and Melville sea sagas where the miser-merman, Wisdom, reveals his hoarded heaps.
Terrible terras are these, where Mom and Pop and the rules they laid down back home in the suburbs are suspended, then subpoenaed by other authorities and reported lost. The map just trailed off the edge of the page didn't it? So now invisible essences must be your guide. "Follow the flowers, friend," a small auburn fox utters. She's up on hind legs, leaning against a tree, rolling a Drum, wearing soft suede boots from an expensive boutique downtown that are supposed to look natural in this context. None too friendly either, and why would she be?
All this, asshole, and yet wilder yet is yon violet. Amid last year's dead leaves, up from the slime of the brackish winter rot still here, you bet, on the late April forest floor is purple, so violent like the spot from some equivocal overly enthusiastic grasp. Just one, all alone, and so small. And then its name so close to the word for mayhem, with just that extra 'n' in that other world.
Smelling so sweet, a candy pretty from the Bois de Bologne bottled on a twisted Paris street near the grey dangerous river by Annick Goutal. Named simply La Violette, it's just one of those things that causes beauty that makes you want to crush and smash, folds the world suddenly into shapes that make us reading about you in some big book wonder how you'll ever find your way home after it all.
Try it, you'll like it. You trust me, don't you?