Wild Greens

When we talk about inspiration, we think of light and breath and discovery. It’s in the words we use: the light bulb moment, an inhale of inspiration, eureka: “I have found it!”

This issue of Wild Greens is all about moments of clarity. The artists in this issue find inspiration in childish glee, in the lessons of nature, and in rediscovering modes of creating.

“Apple Trees” by J.J. Stewart takes inspiration from nature to remind us to be gentle with ourselves.

Maggie Topel’s “Eureka!” logo for this month depicts the moment after Archimedes discovered buoyancy in the bathtub— and ran out to tell the streets.

In Lilia Mahfouz’s hilarious short story “The Wastebasket Syndrome,” an intelligent, well-intentioned modern woman agonizes over an online purchase.

The digital drawing “On the Same Page” by Melissa Lomax shows the joy of reading together, and of rediscovering reading as an adult.

“in this time” by Amelia Díaz Ettinger finds inspiration in the eyes of a seven-year-old child. Lauren Kimball takes a break from Turtle and Hare to give us an excellent comic from her real life, “An Excerpt from Frankie’s Awesome Dictionary,” illustrated neologisms from her three-year-old son.

In the short story “Lavender Haze” by Christy Hartman, an ink pen comes to terms with sharing an artist with a paintbrush. Melissa Lomax collage and colored pencil “Iris with Kitty Cosmos” shows the result of a class the artist taught at a local library, remembering old techniques, rediscovering old techniques through the process of teaching them

“the match only burns if you strike it” by Emma Conlon takes the revelation encountered in a verse of a poem and flips it forwards and backwards. 

“Gulls Soaring Over Flax - Paraparaumu Beach – NZ,” photography by D C Nobes, shows the flight of gulls over the dunes.

We hope that reading Wild Greens gives you that gasp of recognition, that aha moment.

-Rebecca

Apple Trees

The Wastebasket Syndrome

by Lilia Mahfouz

Her eyes fixed on her computer screen, she found herself locked in a fierce inner debate: Should she go for the cheap $4.99 black metal wastebasket from Walmart, or the less ugly light wooden one sold on Amazon for $22.99? This was precisely the kind of dilemma her analytical mind refused to be held hostage by. She resolved to conduct an extensive investigation into every paper bin available on the Internet’s vast marketplace. Who would have guessed at the sheer profusion of shapes and colors, from the simple white plastic wastebasket to the so-called “avant-garde style” polypropylene one? Of course, its “avant-garde style” amounted to little more than mimicking crumpled paper. Apparently, some illustrious Italian designer had devoted their creative energy to this depressive concept.

Insidiously, the world of office wastebaskets began to exert a growing fascination over her. There was truly something to suit every variety of bad taste. Travel-themed designs were particularly prevalent: here was a bin plastered with Big Ben, a double-decker bus, and a red phone booth, all set against a London Underground map backdrop awkwardly wedged into the Tower Bridge. The word “London” slashed across the composition in horrifying Gothic letters, as if the designer had realized, in a spasm of clarity, the horror of their creation. She secretly, entirely spontaneously, hoped that this final fright had done in the assassin of good taste. New York, too, had been caught in the crosshairs of these ill-conceived dreams of elsewhere: yellow taxis and Statues of Liberty jostled for prominence against backdrops of towering skyscrapers. There, an irate King Kong clung to the Empire State Building’s spire, ready to snatch helicopters as if they were flies. For those inclined to venture further westward, there were wastebaskets emblazoned with Route 66 motifs set against star-spangled American flags. 

She reflected that all this paraphernalia glorifying America was deeply disheartening, especially knowing it had been manufactured in China by laborers whose only connection to the American Dream was assembling these monstrosities in soul-draining conditions. Who, she wondered, could reasonably purchase such horrors during peacetime? Her conclusion was unflattering but direct: the victims of such products were likely found in the poorest parts of the world, where minimum wages precluded dreaming beyond one’s office wastebasket.

These lofty sociological musings brought on the beginnings of a headache. Still, abandoning the quest for the ideal wastebasket was out of the question. The perfect one had to be found. Wastebasket with lid or without? With handles or handle-free? Should she opt for recyclable material? This was, undeniably, a noble criterion, one that briefly rekindled her hope of making a thoughtful choice. Underneath one candidate’s description, she read: “recyclable after sorting and collection by company.” The issue was that she worked remotely. Consequently, no one was ever going to knock on her door to collect and recycle her wastebasket at the appointed time. There was also a charming wicker basket with a braided rim. On reflection, though, she recalled having discarded a similar find after sacrificing several pairs of tights that had tragically snagged on it. So much for natural fibers. So much for ecology. Practicality had to prevail. 

She plunged courageously back into the jungle of office wastebaskets. The abundance of options was only heightened by promotional codes and slashed prices marked in bold red. She decided to dedicate a few more minutes to comparing the same bins across various sites, savoring the thrill of gathering incontrovertible evidence of their inflated original prices. Once she deemed her investigation complete, her enthusiasm for wastebaskets began to wane. The idea of a coffee and cigarette break started to tempt her. Intuitively, she recognized the danger of suspending her research—the risk of succumbing to the temptation to abandon it altogether. If she were to definitively turn her back on this mission, what, then, would all the time spent on the cause have been for? For her, no task or battle was insignificant; she prided herself on her tenacity and perseverance in all matters. 

Despite her weariness, she resumed the fight with renewed determination. Her obstinacy finally bore fruit. At last, she stumbled upon the Holy Grail: the “Tales of Wood” natural walnut paper bin, described as “simple and with an evident function.” This economy of words struck her as admirably honest. Its organic shape conveyed an impression of construction both light and robust. It was perfect. With a few more clicks, she discovered that the “Tales of Wood” bin had been created in 1984 by two designers, Jan Andersen and Poul Madsen, and sold under the Normann Copenhagen brand. She mused that perhaps she should consider visiting Denmark and other Scandinavian countries. These cold lands seemed to foster subtle and refined minds. However, the price of creation struck her as exorbitant: $199. She reconsidered the “Tales of Wood” paper bin with fresh eyes. Was it necessary or superfluous to treat oneself to a wastebasket at such an outrageous price? And what was this hypocritical tendency to display prices always ending in .99? No one was fooled; it was a ploy to minimize the perceived cost. Such marketing strategies were an insult to intelligence, and especially to hers.

At this point in her wastebasket market study, her exasperation was at its peak. She mentally evaluated the hurdles she would have to clear if she decided to acquire the Nordic bin. This involved creating an account on an unfamiliar website, inventing a password, activating this new account via email, paying remotely by credit card with all the risks that entailed, and confirming the payment using a security code sent to her phone by her bank. She sighed.

It had to be admitted: indulging in the privilege of tossing paper balls into the designer belly of this wastebasket resembled a veritable ordeal. Fortunately, she also knew how to make decisions that were swift, effective, and radical: she decided, finally, to buy nothing at all.

in this time,

Lavender Haze 

by Christy Hartman

Her frustrated growl breaks my heart. She slams me onto the oak writing desk; the bounce reverberates through my 0.7mm tip. A drop of indigo gel blooms across her unfinished sentence like a fresh bruise. 

She wrestles an easel through the door and unwraps a blank canvas. Her elegant fingers pick up a brush and the blue ink in my stainless-steel barrel morphs to envious green.

The brush squeals as she applies a joyful pink streak to the canvas.

Her eyes sparkle, the same intoxicating way they dance when she swoops me across the page with abandon, spinning and looping until I am roller-coaster dizzy.

“She’ll tire of you soon,” I shout.

“It’s not my fault!” The brush is dunked into a pot of Wild Orchid. “You don’t inspire her anymore.” 

“You’re only a phase.” My cap has been carelessly tossed aside. Soon I’ll dry out beyond repair.

Together they paint with abandon, lost in her art.

She lays the brush next to me, exclaiming, “Yes! That’s it! I know how the story ends!”

Watery paint spreads across the page, flowing from rabbit-soft bristles. The river of pink mingles with the rolling script, blending to the colour of a post-hurricane sky. 

I stretch my nib toward the brush. The cool paint satiates my dried ink. The paintbrush flutters, gentle against my chrome body. “Look what we made.” 

She’ll find us, nestled together in this lavender pool. 

Her muses.