I have upped the ante with my pear stems. Most are in dark, obscure corners where people are unlikely to pay the kind of attention one might to searching for blemishes or imperfections in the bland design of this workspace. But last week I stuck one front and center, right by one of the elevators. It is still a pretty dark spot but it seems like someone should take note of it soon enough. It’s been there a week already.
I’ve also added a slightly erotic nuance to my daily assaying of the pear stems. I touch them. I stroke them. I treat them like sexual objects, or organic creatures that welcome my touch. They do not, of course. They are, cut from their pear, dead and essentially inorganic matter. They cannot grow or fertilize or do anything but continue to dry up and turn to flints of woody dirt.
That is part of my defense, should there ever arise a need for one. These are harmless bits of inorganic material that pose no threat of growing or creeping into larger form. I did not plant pear seeds. This palce will not turn into a pear terrarium. A peararium. The stems are there for my absolution, my sense of presence, my proof to myself that I have actually been here and left evidence.