The Woes of a Purple Brassica

Dr. Kensington -
You have, for the past three months, asked for some sort of explanation regarding my actions that landed me in your care. I thought maybe it would be best to deliver this to you in a form where I cannot be interrupted and badgered with questions before all the facts have been given.
         Around any given landscaped tree south of the Mason-Dixon line, and most likely even a little bit north of it, you will probably find a dark green grass-like plant which often goes by the names Lilyturf or Monkey Grass. Its two most common proper names are Liriope spicata and Liriope muscari. This plant is used as a filler and ground cover by landscape artists everywhere and for the life of me I cannot determine why. Granted, it is easy to grow and maintain and is thick enough to cover just about any size or shaped plot that one can dream up, but when there are thousands of options, why limit yourself to Liriope?
         Being a sensible person, I have made the conscious decision never to raise these concerns with landscape artists of any kind and the reason for that is simple: would a landscape artist ask of an author about the word “said” or “the”? Of course not. That would be a fruitless and silly venture. No one likes to be told that what they are and have been doing for many years could be improved upon by changing some vast aspect of whatever it is they do. It's a shock to the system that needs not be endured.
         That being said, I have gone on for the better part of my life feeling this way about that wretched filler plant and saying nothing to anyone to whom it might matter. Of course, you being my doctor seek the truth so allow me to include here a moment of unabashed honesty in informing you that there have been occasions (typically when I am already angry and looking for an innocent victim upon whom I might take out my rage) where I have, quite contently, stomped on Liriope until there was little left to fill anything except perhaps the bowl of a food processor. I would be lying were I to say that I was not proud of these moments, for during those times I felt like I was at last taking action against this overused plant. Allow me to redeem a point or two here by mentioning also that other than the incident that brought me to you, there has never been a moment where in place of a patch of Liriope, a human was substituted.
         I remember one specific occasion where I was caught by a lady in her thirties, stomping on her Liriope in front of her townhouse. I believe it was on West Avenue; that perfect street between Franklin and Park. I do not remember the cause for my temper, but I remember the day itself clearly: it was a warm, spring day. There was not a cloud in the sky, and I was wearing a t-shirt for the first time in weeks. I was angry at someone or something and charging my way down West Avenue toward my home on Monument. I was nearly to the end of West when out of the corner of my eye, I saw in front of one of those perfect West Avenue houses, a patch of Liriope, begging to be slaughtered. On all fours, I ripped, stomped, punched and kicked that Liriope until there was little left but dirt.
         Mind, I was dressed nicely, clean-shaven, and had showered only a few hours before, so I did not in any way resemble a transient of any kind. I wanted to make sure that was clear because what happened next, I think you'll find, was not entirely my fault. When I had finished ravaging that breeding nest of landscaping ignorance, I noticed someone else's breathing within earshot. I looked up and there she was: a thirty-something mother with her twins' stroller next to her, wearing her pink and gray jogging suit, holding a leash in her left-hand which connected to her Welsh Corgi, which seemed just as confused as she did. This woman had the audacity to look at me and say: “And just how many drugs are you on today? This is exactly why people like yourself can't find jobs!”. The only thing I could think of to do in retaliation was to spit at her. So I spit and charged away.
         I would like to interrupt and say that typically I find the inhabitants of West Avenue a pleasant group of people, but this woman...this woman...I am certain that had I not been just as surprised to see her as she to see me, she may have gotten the same treatment as our friend in Manhattan. There was such condescension in her voice that I don't see how anyone, homeless or not, could have resisted giving her a good kick. I certainly don't see how I resisted.
         Something hit me then, however, and this is important, Dr. Kensington, so pay attention: Liriope is an indicator. It indicates ignorance and separation between the classes. Stop your smirking, doctor, I can see it even in my mind's eye. People pay landscape artists to design them a beautiful garden. The landscape artist, being smart, wants to do it as quickly and easily as possible. He says to his clients “Oh, of course! I've got the perfect plant for you to use as a filler.” and so he gets paid to put more of that stuff on the ground. The people paying him (probably wealthy if they can afford a house with a yard and to hire a landscape artist) will believe without question everything that he says. Never will it occur to them, for reasons already discussed, to challenge someone with “artist” in their title. So these people think they are better than everyone else because they are wealthy and can pay someone else to design their wondrous garden for them and so on and so forth and then there's another patch of Liriope in the world. As I said: this plant is an indicator of ignorance and separation.
         It is then that I went on the burning spree. I decided that if people were to draw fear from having their Liriope, maybe they would get rid of it. Maybe this cheap, simple plant would scare them all a little bit. So I started to burn it. Every night, at one-thirty in the morning, I would find another patch of it and set it ablaze. Of course it wasn't but twelve nights before someone saw me and I had to flee. Well aware that this ignorance and separation due to one's affluence existed everywhere, I decided that at least I could head to somewhere where Liriope was less abundant. Being a city-dweller all my life, I decided that the northernmost city to which I could flee and still be happy would be the Big Apple: New York City. I sold all of my things and took a bus north before anyone could identify who the Liriope Lacerator was. I do admit that I glean some pride from earning myself such a ridiculous nickname.
         I found myself in New York City with a well-stocked bank account, a wallet, and only the outfit I had worn on the bus trip up. I say with certainty that it's a good thing I had no other assets at the time, as it would have been a complete waste. I spent my first day there just exploring and taking it all in. I breathed clean air because, after the first five hours, I had yet to see even one example of Liriope. Maybe it was there and I just didn't notice or maybe there wasn't any at all. It doesn't matter to me. For the first time in my life I wasn't surrounded by it and that memory will continue to live on as perhaps the most at peace I have ever been.
         Yet I found that instead of Liriope in any of its forms, there was another, more beautiful, yet far stranger ground cover that was used. I was so perplexed by the usage of this plant that for awhile I found it grossly amusing: cabbage. At the time I would have liked to have met the man who first thought to use cabbage as a filler plant because I was and still am positive that it started as a joke that caught on in a very, very bad way. I examined this cabbage, Brassica olceracea closely and found that it was a rather wonderfully designed plant. It had its little purple tips amongst its green mass; there was just enough color there to make it nice to look at it, but not so much that it overwhelmed passersby. It rested on the ground simply without having long leaves to wave in the wind. It just sat, short and squat, looking beautiful and a little grumpy, and waited.
         Yes, it seemed to be waiting for something, though I knew not what. I sat next to a garden plot and sat in silence as I watched the Brassica, amused by its grumpiness and squatness. It piqued my curiosity and I found myself smiling at it. What was it waiting for? What was a landscaped plant's life but to be planted and die? It was never used for anything but aesthetics. It was a useless decoration designed to appease the humans.
         Yet again, I found a plant as an allegory to the wrongs of the world. Humans, Dr. Kensington, are a terrible race. We give life to things for the purpose of letting them die. This is not limited to plants, either. We cage birds, slaughter cattle, test rats and plant Brassica oleracea for no other purpose than to increase our own pleasure. I began to feel sorry for the cabbage, and not only the cabbage: but for anything and everything that we touch. Humans are like King Midas, yet instead of gold, it's death. We live our lives and kill every good thing that Earth throws at us. We manipulate it and use it and throw it away.
         I thought it was high time the cabbages had their revenge. That is why I attacked that poor gentleman who happened to be passing when I had these thoughts: he was there and a human. That is why I gave peace to those cabbages, waiting for death, by ripping them from their plot and giving their death some meaning. Cabbage does little damage, however, and I admit that perhaps the newly planted pear tree was a bit much. However these things, these precious things of which we take advantage need to have their voices heard once in awhile. I merely acted on what I thought was best at the time. I can assure you that it was sheer coincidence that the man I attacked with fourteen cabbages and a small pear tree turned out to be the mayor. Then again, perhaps to the plants it was no coincidence at all.
         As for Liriope, I haven't seen any of it since I was removed from Manhattan and placed in your care, but please give it my best. I think that perhaps I have found peace with it at last.
         I do not expect this explanation of my actions to exonerate me from my crimes, of course. I am well aware of what I have done and in fact promote such actions. You may keep me here as long as you wish but I have said here all that I can think of to say. Expect nothing more out of me. Like the cabbages, I will now wait silently for death.

          Best Regards,
                    Florian Green