Angel's Trumpet

Waiting for the light rail the other day, a thin black woman wearing baggy clothes screamed at no one in particular, maybe the tracks, screamed about where she’d been and where to go, screamed she needed to open her eyes, someone needed to open their eyes, the caucasians were working too hard and not hard enough.
I rested on a steel post, my foot lifted on the turquoise metal, I held a book open as protection like a vest. I don’t know what it is about people yelling, not even yelling at me or anything, but plain yelling that makes me yank down the metal gate to my store front. It’s a dog whistle, scratching chalk board, internal bleeding, popping balloon, valve pressure sort of thing. I can literally feel my insides curl into themselves like at Datura in daylight.

SIDE NOTE: What I just learned about Datura is that they are also knows as Angel’s Trumpet which happens to be a beer bar here we made fun of constantly for sounding like Jesus’ dong or Cupid’s weenie, but I have a newfound respect for the bar now as Datura only come out at night (makes bar sense) and is poisonous if consumed (BEEEEEEEEER)

I’ve totally lost track of this post and where it was going or supposed to go, but I’ve added Datura to my memory bank and perhaps it will pop up again. Especially since I just posted a picture of one that my mom sent from the Grand Canyon. It’s all coming together….

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2 Responses to Angel's Trumpet

  1. Ha! ‘Angel’s Trumpet’ – you make me smile, Rach! Funny that you’re having all these encounters with Datura over there because I’ve been having them here in NZ. New friends (from the US) have a small grove of them in their ‘yard’ and when I lived in South Africa, we had a towering plant in our Cape Town garden. I was reminiscing about that chapter of my life just a couple days ago. Our name for Datura there/then was ‘Moon Flower’.

    I’m like you around yelling – instant recoil, knot in the solar plexus, a wish to turn and run.

    • rachvb says:

      That is strange! I’ve never really heard much about them until my mom sent a picture and after that they seem to be everywhere. Plants do sort of tie us to different chapters of our lives, don’t they? We had honeysuckles in our yard in California growing up and these bushed with pink flowers on them (not sure what they are called) but every time I see them now, it takes me home.

      I guess I have sensitive ears, feelings for loud angry noises. I become as small as possible.

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