there was no getting there, i was already in blackout. then dungeons of green.
pushing through a beige-lacquered industrial door, overgrown with a plant-like thing; a seaweed grown so massive it hangs from beams in long swathes like a pocked, unprocessed silk. everything is damp to the touch. droplets of a green liquid drip from a high ceiling layered thick with this slowly creeping mass. i am told it is a species named 'ululus'. it is purported to have infiltrated the site as spores on clothing, or by clinging to skin after a swim in the sea. it shouldn't be here. alien species, not from these parts. i wonder what was being done to remove the offending growths. the constant dripping of the weed is brought to my attention; it brings a tempo to the vegetation. it is growing with rhythm as much as purpose. small orange quoits are beginning to form along its shiny chitinous lengths, massing on the underside of the weed. i make out a faint musty odour. this dripping, rhythmic world open up as the sun rises inside the room. light reflects of all surfaces. battle of the albedo. the weed becomes a glistening eels out of water. i try to grasp hold of its length. it evades me somehow. i grapple at matted sections, pulling at it with great force. it comes free with an unpleasant slithering. in its place new fronds are made buoyant from further gluts of ululus below. but around me i am told we can get by living with it. we just need to stash it in corners, under floorboards. we can eat it if we have to. i cram the stuff into the pockets i have. into my bag. into my mouth and ears. where next? better to leave this world to the weeds.
*afterthought: upon researching the word 'ululus', i have found it is considered: a female joy-sound (in mozambique): "a kind of trill made by the tongue and in a loud and high-pitched manner." - signe arnfred, sexuality & gender politics in mozambique: rethinking gender in africa. i'm curious that the seaweed might resemble a visual interpretation of this trill.
(cobh, 28 august 2016)