In Continuum.

Ghost Orchid




Any activity that promises exhilaration, boasts also the possibility of addiction. Being new to the world of online shopping, there is a very real possibility that I might become addicted to the idea of buying things off the Internet with a few clicks of the mouse. The idea of buying something without the need of taking anything out of your wallet is definitely welcoming, though technically speaking they are really one and the same. One involves you physically taking the cash out of your wallet, and the other requires only for a few confirmation numbers and someone else will do the transaction for you. The invisibility of this transaction makes it possible for the users of websites like Amazon.com and eBay, to think that everything is free. Turning into a button-happy person is probably the last thing I want to be, but the fact that I just received the very first item I got off the Internet last Saturday could become my first step to the point of no return.

One of my favorite movies - Adaptation - arrived at my doorsteps on Saturday, and the second viewing only made the love for this film so much sweeter. Despite knowing almost every line in the movie, it is still so easy for one to be lost in the story, to wander in this confusing world of Charlie Kaufman, especially his take on the book that he desperately tried to adapt in the film called "The Orchid Thief". The book is an actual book written by a journalist from the New Yorker - Susan Orleans - who followed John Laroche, a convicted American orchid poacher who was caught trying to steal a very rare species of orchid from the Fakahatchee Strand State Preserve with his group of Seminoles. This special orchid grows only in its natural habitat, and almost impossible anywhere else. This is an endangered form of orchids, usually sold in the flower market at an extremely high price. Aside from the specialized growing conditions, it also needs to be bred within its own genetic pool, which is also another reason why this orchid is so elusive, so difficult to find - almost like a ghost. The ghost orchid, or technically known as Polyrrhiza lindenii, is as beautiful as an orchid gets.

They say everyman goes blind in his heart
And they say everybody steals somebody's heart away
And I got nothing more to say about it
Nothing more than you would me

My mother has a thing for plants, but flowers in particular. If it is possible for her to disappear in this not-so-big house, she'd most probably be found on her knees at the balcony, pushing the blade of a spade into the wet soils around her plants. She loves her plants, and has a love affair with every one of them when my father is not around. There is something serene about being in the balcony, and my mother knows it better than anybody else in the family. Living in the middle of the country has its drawbacks, because are hardly able to get a little garden for your own enjoyment. There is always those landed properties you can purchase at a much higher price, but in relative to those seamless fields that my mother and her siblings used to run through barefooted, it is hardly comparable. So nineteen floors up and on the edge of the balcony, my mother has her rows of plants in a dozen different varieties. Nothing too fancy, and nothing to really boast about. But some of those plants have stayed with the family for the longest time, and it'd be strange to see any of them wither in the days to come.

As a child, I used to sit next to my mother as she tended to the dying trees. I helped to carry the flower pots out of the ditch most of the time, and she'd be the plant doctor of the house, the one that did all the surgeries on the plants. She'd pull the whole plant out from the pot, and then examine the bottom of the roots to check for any possible bugs that might have infested themselves in the stem itself. I don't suppose she has read any books on gardening, but it seems like she has acquired the skill to take care of those plants herself after years of experience. On the other hand, I was the person who was infinitely more interested in the insects that crawled about the pile of soil on the newspaper, the one that poked them around with the tip of my index finger. My insect observations came to an end one day when my mother came home after a shopping at a local orchard with pots of flowers. I remember her giving a call from her cellphone, asking me to go downstairs to help her out with some of the pots she bought. I recall the smell that erupted out of the backseat of the car, the way the aroma attacked my nostrils and set forth a dozen different images in my mind.

Send me your flowers, of your December
Send me your dreams, of your candy wine
I got just one thing I cant give you
Just one more thing of mine

Amongst the flowers my mother bought, there was an orchid that stood out from all the rest. It was white in the middle, the colors carefully blended outwards into a subtle shade of violet. It stood proud against the other flowers and the wind, undaunted by the midnight rains and the equatorial sun. I was mesmerized by a plant for the very first time, and I think it was my first time conversing with the plants at the balcony. John Laroche is right by saying that the relationship between the flower and the insect that pollinates it reveals to us the meaning of life at times, the fact that the only barometer in life is your heart. It is that mindless obedience to nature I guess, the way a bee would be attracted only to a certain kind of flower, the way they have no clue what they are designed for, but just doing what they were told to do instinctively. I suppose there is a certain beauty in that, the simplicity of the relationship between the flower and the insect is astounding to behold.

I've never seen a ghost orchid before, in fact I am not even very good at naming flowers. My knowledge of flowers go as far as the ones that I have and the ones I had in my home, or even the ones I've heard from songs and movies. We are not speaking of technical names here, but just the names of flowers themselves are enough to confuse the living daylight out of me. To me orchids are orchids, but then the truth tells me that there are orchids and there are orchids. After watching the film though, there is a strange attraction to the ghost orchid mentioned in the movie, how it singlehandedly turned the lives of a journalist, a orchid poacher, and a writer upside down. The nickname "Ghost Orchid" was given to the flower not only because of the blending of its stem into the background that gives us an illusion that it is floating in midair, but also the strange unexplainable passion of flower lovers and non-lovers alike. After all, orchids do have the same root word in Latin as the word "testicles", and the fact that an orchid looks like a woman's clitoris can evoke certain emotions and urges. Whatever the reason may be, you have to admit this one thing: The Ghost Orchid is terribly beautiful, so beautiful that it is almost a crime.

They say everyman goes blind in his heart
They say everybody steals somebody's heart away
And I've been wondering why you let me down
And I been taking it all for granted

There is something about the symmetry of that flower that is so perfect, and the words that are crowding into my mind right now as I am looking at the picture for the umpteenth time. I mean, just look at the beauty of it. The arms of the orchid looks almost like arms reaching out, slender and elegant. It looks almost like a princess being trapped in a tower somehow, reaching out for help, waiting for somebody to find her. But it is so rare and so hard to find, that people might have already forgotten about her existence, might have thought that she died over the years - that she turned into a ghost.

Sometimes, it is hard to accept the fact that this plant is an epiphyte, and also about how the most suitable habitat for this beauty is in the deeps of a swamp. It is inconceivable how a plant like that has to depend on another to survive, when a beauty like this should be able to stand on its own, independent of all others. It should have the right to have its own stem, its own roots, or whatever parts of a plant should have. To think that this orchid grows only in the swarm is almost impossible to imagine, considering the fact that I have personally swam through a dozen of those in my army life, you start to wonder if it is possible for anything to survive in those murky waters that gave off the most repugnant smell.

Yes, I just dedicated a whole entry to a single flower, and I don't suppose I am going to get a lot of applause on it. After all, not a lot of people are going to be interested in flowers as much as I am, at least in this particular specimen. This is a sure sign of me running out of topics to blog about, especially when I am blogging faster than my life allows. Even if that is really the case, I don't suppose there is any harm with having a post dedicated to the ghost orchid. I don't think I have the same amount of passion for orchids like John Laroche, or even his passion for fishes, turtles and mirrors. I am probably not the kind of person who likes to delve too deep into a certain subject, but would rather admire a certain beauty from afar, with an innocence that is almost child-like. That is how I view the ghost orchid, and everything else in life - really. The barometer of the heart, indeed.

John Laroche," Point is, what's so wonderful is that every one of these flowers has a specific relationship with the insect that pollinates it. There's a certain orchid look exactly like a certain insect so the insect is drawn to this flower, its double, its soul mate, and wants nothing more than to make love to it. And after the insect flies off, spots another soul-mate flower and makes love to it, thus pollinating it. And neither the flower nor the insect will ever understand the significance of their lovemaking. I mean, how could they know that because of their little dance the world lives? But it does. By simply doing what they're designed to do, something large and magnificent happens. In this sense they show us how to live - how the only barometer you have is your heart. How, when you spot your flower, you can't let anything get in your way."