The Yazoo Blues. John Pritchard
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huddled on my unturned counterpane, ordinary objects assailed me and terrified me with their sudden imposition on my senses. I knew not the nature of my illness, but I was determined to hold onto my sanity as best I could until dawn.
I survived the night, and, when morning came, I went outside. Ordinary objects no longer flew at me and made me afraid. Instead, there was a quietness and a singularity of moment I thought was exceedingly odd, and what seemed best to define this part of the experience was that the crocuses, just beginning to emerge and to bloom, appeared to be more animal than plant. The branches and the leaves of trees and those of shrubs seemed warm and, in some fashion, what I might describe as personable—much as an affectionate dog might seem to a kind master.
In addition, the azaleas were also beginning to bloom, and their colors were so luminous as to be almost iridescent in their brilliance. It was as though the flowers were infused with a radiance more supernatural than natural. And I felt that all the plant-world and I were in close, personal correspondence.
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