Building a jungle in my apartment took time. I wondered whether it would last, at what cost a jungle would impart on my bank account and free-time, and if the finished flourishing product would recapitulate roughly the sensation of my ideal. That’s what I was after, of course, ethos.
I rent. And like most my age, have all my grown-up life. I even lease my cars. Since the start of college twelve years past, my address has changed as many times. It is not so much an uprooting, but, rather, staying unrooted. An existence which belies what I have come to realize is a deep-seated yearning for oak-like stability in other facets of life. Perhaps it’s my Middle American background where property ownership and a few sizable possessions like a pool, flat-screen, or SUV, are, if not hallmarks, then cairns along the path to being a grown-uppity.
These possessions, and there are others, serve as mile markers on what can only be called a developmental pathway in American society open to all soon after graduation, high school, college or tech institute. While I can’t exactly claim to be habitating in the underpasses and culverts, like a true under the radar rebel, or piddling by in the brake-down lane with my hazards on, I cruise along on the less-well-maintained county roads alongside. I’ve been watching for some years now, smelling the exhaust and hearing the engines whirring past, but I still haven’t found any onramp worth the merge. What will it take? Hopefully I’ll go happily, leaning into it a little nervously and unsure. Hopefully it won’t seem unanticipated via some ill-fated cause and effect scenario where I’m forced into a career upon siring an offspring or getting fired and finding how quickly my savings account dries up without a bi-monthly replenishment.
But I have steady income and the wherewithal to experiment with jungle design and maintenance in a small rowhouse. If I can convert a space, no matter how tiny, into something wholly idiosyncratic and unique, I’ll have at the least sequestered the desire to toward ownership, toward castle-construction, toward a Shangri-la of my own making.
The first thing I think of as intrinsic to the humid mysteries of a jungle are carnivorous plants. Well, first ferns, a complete groundcover of ferns, a Mesozoic prairie of ferns, then carnivorous plants. Since I don’t have an equatorial climate and other metrics in my rental—settling fogs, intense sunlight, a monsoon season—the best I can do is the wonderful Elk and Staghorn bromeliad. These I know are suited to my domicile’s specific atmosphere because they are sold in a local plant store and hail from the semi-arid tropics of Queensland, Australia.
Another hallmark of jungle environs are trees, trees with massive branchless trunks stretching skward, readily converted to nice knot-free lumber. I have a money tree from Ikea in a floor pot from Ikea, whose thick braided trunk and spearhead-shaped leaves, vaguely indica, resembles the giant mahogany trees of the Amazon or boab trees of Madagascar.
Now to the carnivorous plants. In the past, I’ve had little luck with these guys. The Venus Fly Traps grow in swamps as do the honeydew. And they don’t like chlorinated tap water or liquid fertilizer. You’d think I could keep alive the Carolina Sarracenia considering my geography, but no. I’ve also managed to kill a Nepenthes pitcher plant, but I’m giving it another go since the ones at the local plant store are still thriving after their Florida greenhouse deportment. I haven’t recovered from the first one that I killed, so this time I’m taking measures to ensure survival. Unfortunately, that involves not having it in my jungle.
Instead, my latest carnivorous vegetable is affixed to the bathroom wall in a basket overhanging the shower under a bubble window, a common fixture in rowhouse bathrooms. Both requirements are met: sunlight and humidity. I’ve encouraged everyone who sees it (after all the obligatory scrotum references are made) to feed the dangling appendages insects. Though not strictly a member of the jungle, it still serves as a great conversation piece after a guest has returned from relieving herself.