A new kind of plant?

My apologies for the delay in updating my reports. However, a recent discovery has disturbed me profoundly, leaving me quite unable to trust my faculties and afraid to even report my observations, lest I be deemed mad.  But report I must.

A few weeks ago, I was exploring a somewhat more xeric landscape and came across a magnificent specimen of the genus Opuntia, which is aptly known as the “prickly pear cactus” and is commonly found in well-drained landscapes of my home in North Florida.  If carefully peeled, the “pears” can be eaten; I do mean carefully!

No fruits were visible as I approached the plant, but being somewhat hungry, I decided to conduct a close inspection.  This nearly frightened me out of my wits when I observed the plant from overhead.  As you can see clearly from the second illustration reproduced here, the cactus’s branched”paddles” are growing in three perfectly distinct, evenly spaced planes!  I have never before seen such symmetry in Opuntia.

But there’s more, as is perhaps apparent in the image.  Each plane is truly a plane, without thickness of any kind.  Is such a thing even possible? Among other things, how is water transported from the roots? How can–oh, this is dreadful and quite unimaginable. Am I losing my reason?

I stumbled from plant to plant, finding similar examples of the triplanar construction.  Not all, mind you. Thank the powers for that. Many have normal, three dimensional trunks, for example, though I am as yet unable to scale the upper branches to see if the planar structure is repeated there.

What can this mean?

Where does rain come from?

Just a brief followup to my previous post, from the same locale. While still puzzling over the sexed waterfall, I found myself amid one of the strange dry rains of this world, and climbed to the top of a rocky eminence — only to discover the raindrops seemingly springing out of nowhere, as if by magic. No clouds, just rain appearing in thin air, a few feet above the rocks.

This is not without precedent in the world I come from, it seems, according to this article from the New York Times, October 22, 1886.

Am I a time traveler, then?

Deep Woods Waterfall – Full Sex ?!?

A most astonishing development today. Whilst exploring a nearby continent (more on methods of travel later, I promise), I encountered this lush if somewhat manicured woodland scene, and thought it might be a perfect place to begin sampling some of the freshwater aquatic life in the pool at the bottom of this lovely waterfall.

Reminiscent of the environment of volcanic islands in tropical zones elsewhere, the abundance of palms, caladiums, and bougainvillea gave me every confidence that I would find a rich variety of lifeforms within the water as well. As a plus, I realized that a young woman was observing the falls in what seemed to be rapt contemplation, and I thought it might be possible to enquire regarding other similar locales for investigation.

But imagine my shock as I approached more closely and paid closer heed to the two boxlike objects near the path. As best as I can make out, the waterfall is available as a packaged object, for sale! Apparently someone has developed a means of replicating such natural scenes endlessly. But how is this possible? And furthermore, whence comes the water, should one purchase a copy and install it “at home” — doubtless on the grounds of some large estate, a la Capability Brown’s work at Blenheim?? Does it merely circulate, as a fountain? And yet later investigation could discern neither pump nor power supply.

My disappointment at learning of the artificial nature of this waterfall scene was surpassed by the shock I experienced upon closer examination of one of the boxes. Whatever can this mean, “full sex”? Is the waterfall organic, and somehow gendered? But no, that cannot be. Or — or is it — I thought to approach the young woman with my questions but thought better of it, and left in a bit of a discomfited rush, I don’t mind telling you.

Stop, hey, what’s that sound?

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
–Buffalo Springfield, “For What It’s Worth”

In my last post I mentioned sound, and I suppose I ought to fill in a bit on the sounds in this world, because again, they resemble and yet differ from what one hears in the world I was born into.

I also think it’s meaningful to address sound because we are such sight-predators, so deeply entrenched in the visual medium for so many things that we tend to forget that–as Walter Ong has described it–humans were for so long awash in the sonic constructions of an oral culture.  About the closest one comes to that immersion in sound today is pop music, which washes over us in supermarkets and spills from our fellow citizens’ automobiles at traffic lights.

But as to natural sounds, which of those do we attend to in our present society?  What do non-human and non-artificial sounds signify for us?  When do natural sounds matter?  I can think of only a few that might rise above the clatter of a city: the ocean’s surf at the edge of town, or a thunderstorm, or perhaps songbirds and crickets as one moves out toward the suburbs.

Yet for those with ears to hear, let them hear: Sounds can convey and evoke place–that specific sense of a location that is somewhat fixed, somewhat permanent.  The coyote in the desert hills. A lion’s roar on the plains of Africa. The cacophony of sealions on the California coast.

Here in this world I find myself in, there is a strange genericness to natural sounds.  I do hear a low susurrus of wind, often, and when I am near seashores I frequently hear the rhythm of surf, which is hugely evocative for me and quite calming.  And there is birdsong almost everywhere, though I hardly ever see the birds themselves, and it’s nearly always the same three or four common North American songbirds, making the same sounds over and over in deadly monotony.

That’s pretty much it for natural sounds here.  It’s as if some citybound soul was asked to list what sounds comprise Nature, and at the dawn of this world’s creation, that sonic landscape was made the default.  A sterile and placeless sound regime.

Thus when I settled on my own parcel, Tallahassee Beach, and tried to make of it an image (or homage) of my erstwhile Florida home, sounds were a top priority with me.  Here I am surrounded with the calls of seagulls, limpkins, barred owls, chuckwill’s widows, cicadas, and katydids.  The sounds change as day shifts to night, just as in that other world I left.

It’s not a lot, but it helps. I wish more places I visit here took sounds as seriously as I do.

What has happened to the world?

Clearly this is not the place I was in when I turned on the computer last night. Something has happened. I do remember a lightning storm, and thinking it was probably not a good idea to go online then.

And now I am here. Until I get it figured out, and to keep myself sane, I’m going to keep doing what I do, which is report on Nature.

It looks normal enough, depending where you start. This place has gravity and the basic physical laws of inertia and elasticity, because things fall and bounce off each other here, just like home. At the same time, objects can simply float in the middle of the air with no visible means of support, and some apparently solid objects–but not all of them–are a kind of holographic projection that you can walk right through.

Am I a ghost? I have wondered that. I don’t need to eat or drink, and–as I discovered by accident–falling from incredible heights doesn’t affect me one bit, though it’s unnerving. I can see rain falling but don’t feel it–but then, it doesn’t seem to affect anything else here. Nothing gets wet. The sun shines but I can’t feel it. The days are very short–just a few hours.

So many contradictions. There is wind and it does affect the plants, at least, because I see them waving in the breeze. But the breeze also operates underwater. There are no currents.

Even more strangely, I can breathe underwater. That is, I don’t seem to be breathing here at all, so being underwater is neither drenching nor drowning.

What is this place?

Now I hear something in the distance, getting closer. I realize I am somewhat vulnerable where I’m writing this, so I will close for now.