The Terror of Kudzu

The Terror of Kudzu Its own metaphor for ineradicable nuisance, it plays at the mind's edges, encroaching in the dullest greens, doffing the hat of a rude guest, last to leave the party. In some distant country it could be haiku climbing the walls in search of obscure interpretations, its tendrils reaching for meaning beyond the obvious, clinging to an oversight in plain view. It could be, but isn't, for the fact of its being here now. Not even a venerable lineage can rescue it from the incarnation it assumes as a roadside beggar, reminder of mistakes made by letting strangers get too close to us for our own good. On closer look it becomes what we most despise; something unnameably near, confounding us with its ability to make vague silhouettes of familiar landmarks or bloat the once-solid shapes of signs lending geometric certitude to all our directions. 120 How many are the recipes for disaster in kudzu and its kindred family of upstart weeds, growing luxuriantly, nudging us ever closer to the spot where a wheel hangs precariously before leaving the road. Only in an instant of hovering do we discover that an unwanted child now hugs the land with suffocating familiarity, demanding to be noticed if only to affirm the insanity of our wish to forget what can't be tamed. —Edward Francisco 121 122 ...