The Resistible Rise of a Common Pollen Spore

We shall argue with the stones

But you we shall kill

You must not live

Whatever lies we are forced to believe

You must not have been.

-Bertolt Brecht, Handbook for City-Dwellers

What was it that drove him to such evil? From what horrible wellsprings arise the extremisms that terrorize the world? Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered. All we can account for are the outward facts – the inner workings of the self-radicalization of the soul must ever remain in the realm of speculation.

The Little Pollen Spore was born to a flower on a weak, decrepit old tree at the outskirts of the most miserable suburb of the city. Truly if anyone can be said to have started from the bottom, it is he.

His mother the old tree would often tell him, “My son! Do not be deceived by the paltriness of our situation. You are of noble blood! Your grandfather, a great and respected maple tree, had the most beautiful foliage in all the forest! It is our ill luck that we were scattered by the construction crews, and pruned by the city workers, until we became the sorry sight we are today, a trunk fit for dogs to pee on and teenagers to vandalize.” And here she would weep.

With bitterness pulsing through his chlorophyll, the Little Spore nursed his anger from childhood. He had nothing but rage for mankind and their urban sprawl, their construction, their trash, their contempt for the plants and the insects. He swore revenge.

It was not long before the Little Spore was forced to leave his mother the old decrepit tree and make his way in the world. Borne by the winds of change, he soared high over the rooftops of suburbs and latched himself onto a migrating goose returning North for the Spring.

“So, you’re a spore, are you? Heading to the big city for allergy season?”

The Little Spore was confused. He had never heard of allergy season, nor of any reason why a spore should have anything to do with a big city with all its concrete and skyscrapers and pathetic park trees, slaves and collaborators all. His plan, he told the goose, was to seek out some lonely patch of wood, some high hill where he might cultivate his conduct and sprout one day into a mighty patriarchal tree, as of of old, and to look from on high past the comings and goings of men and the seasons.

“You are just a romantic idiot!” Said the goose. “So what if you run away to the forest? Say you are luck enough to avoid the suburban concrete, pollinate a bud, and spend all your time growing high for 30 or 40 years - the bulldozers and chainsaws will get you in the end. Better to get your revenge as soon as possible. For my own part, there’s nothing I like to see more than humans sneezing and simpering with allergies, keeled over with Kleenex.”

The goose dropped off the spore in the big city, where he saw swarms of people, cars, bikes, dogs, and other amenities of a corrupt and decadent civilization. He drifted along in the miasma of wonder. He had never seen so much activity!

Soon he came to a little park, and there he saw a huge gathering of pollen spores just like himself. They were standing beneath a tree with a bed flowers – a spore with a leather cap was addressing the mass.

“Spores of the world, unite! The human has made a war against our people, has oppressed us and has kept us from sprouting to our full potential. This is why we fight back. This is why, when May beckons with its sweet sunshine, we gather for allergy season –to fight, to celebrate, to protest the domination of the pestilent human!”

The Little Spore was entranced. Here at last was a chance to revenge himself on his innumerable oppressors. He joined the society, which was violent, revolutionary, and called the Seedlings Now Instigated For Freedom (known colloquially as SNIFF). Fairly soon he was indoctrinated with all the appropriate ideology – the history of the domination of mankind, the rise of husbandry and agriculture, to gardening, and the modern organic farmer. He learned to soar through the air, to get caught on hairs and nose hairs, to plague the eyes, ears, all the orifices of his enemies. He became, in short, an ideal revolutionary.

Then the time came. The order came from the very top. He was chosen to go on a special mission to attack a particularly tricky allergic person. This fellow, a cocksure scholar of 26 who popped anti-histamines like they were Mike and Ikes, was a violent enemy of all pollen and pollinators. The Little Spore was given his picture to study, to learn to hate. “For the revolution,” he said, “this man’s nose will run! His eyes will puff. His ears will itch. He will wake up in the morning and feel as if his head had been bred with an entire gang of Cossacks.”

By 6:00 a.m. the next morning, the Little Spore had successfully infiltrated the kulak’s bedroom. The Little Spore found his enemy curled up in the fetal position, drooling, mumbling sweet nothings in his sleep. For a brief moment, he almost felt pity for the sad creature prostrate before him.

“I, sneaking in the dark like a villain, plan to attack this poor, slumbering, peaceable creature?”

But his training soon kicked in, and the voice of the revolution spore awoke in him:

“This man is an exploiter. He is responsible for the death of thousands of plants. He has personally pulled up hundreds of tree roots, squished thousands of dandelions, squealed and swatted at uncountable wasps. He must pay”.

And with a heart of iron, seeking blood and reparation, the Little Spore plunged into the sleeper’s nose.

***

EPILOGUE

And now a song about the utter avoidability of this tragedy through the pre-emptive consumption of antihistamines:

That man who thinks the world is safe
Who knows all the he knows
He is the first, that first of May
To blow his snotty nose.

That man who gargles every day
Gargles a cup of listerine
Let him beware, that first of May
To take his antihistamine!

The antihistamine my friends!
For it is only this thing
That stops tyranny in its track
That stops us all from sniffling!