Friday, February 15, 2019

A Blighted Unnatural Tale - The Folly of Magda Golyta
The daunting attempt to induce DNA from no matter what beast
in the animal class of Chordata (the phylum of backbones) to seed
with the genes of a bloom in the phylum Magnoliaphyta a viable
creature packed, woven and sewn into some new collusion of un-
likely flower and primate, the first in the biota zone to meet Magna
Golyta’s grand goal, which she’d spawned in her winters in Vichy,
wherein interspecies relationships haunted her dreams – vaunting
her schemes into science upon whose reliance she hoped to find
courage to muster the requisite force and intention she’d need
to become half of that strange amalgam herself. Genius source
that she was of devising a way to pack into her backbone the cells
of her prefrontal cortex to harbor her mind, she then purposefully
undermined all of Nature to graft that to stem, leaves and roots
of an azure magnolia: in whose be-leafed body she’d finally know
homo sapiens sentience from inside the works of a flowering plant.
She’d longed for forever to grant the uniting of doctorly logic and art
in the service of wedding supposedly utterly alien phyla into one
miraculous unity which with impunity would marry Magda Golyta
to lovely Magnolian bliss. How she did this I’d neither the smarts nor
the time to pursue. That she did this was true, and quite clear: regard
her form here in its awkward conglomerate outcome. She’d become
the unwitting recipient of unimaginable savage pain: human-being-
bones’ toxic reaction to chemicals that photosynthesis bred into
every last pore in the plant and the cells from her brain. Mercilessly
photosynthesized into a tortured distress, no rain, only sun, and pain
that attending to feeding magnolias caused in the spine was beyond
any language she had to explain. I’m sure she is desperately trying
to hatch better strategies, maybe one which she’s certain if she had
had hands… But she doesn’t have hands so there’ll be no release nor
a fathomably single feasible way to attain it. And there isn’t a moral,
like what Jonah learned in the whale. It’s merely a blighted unnatural
tale. Who knows, if she’d chosen a rose or some clover from Bali, this
might not have turned into Magda Golyta’s sad folly. But she did
what she did instead. And now both are dead. Photosynthesis,
though, carries on. That bugger will last till the leaves all die
and the Sun don’t dawn. By that time we all will be gone.

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