N(really)P (but P): Tropical Lowlands, a riff on a pynchonian theme (from a piece on urban foraging)

[Mark Kohut]

gives life to a riotous mass of tropical plants, bursting out of cracked pavement, vining up abandoned fences, reclaiming spaces where industry once flourished. On the wild banks of this urban bayou, the cycles of life, death, creation and destruction play out just a few feet from the gas stations, tacuerias, dollar stores, and strip malls of our built landscape. Even in such close proximity to what now passes for civilization, we can return to a human history before American Idol, before Freud and Marx, before agriculture to become the hunters and gatherers we once were. A mulberry tree grows just feet from the dead pit bull, its roots entwined with the crumbling remains of the concrete plant, its branches adorned with dozens of dark purple berries, succulent, sweet, ready for the picking and not available at any supermarket. 
       
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