I have dug into this soil to grasp and discover its structure and texture, it's material reality: I have touchd it, sniffed it, listened to it. In the first layer I felt to many things all mixed and mingled, almost a chaos which instilled fear, anxiety, palpitations. Too recent are the events which violated it, abused it, exploited it, and it still conserves the painful, obscene odor, the fearful roars, the violent vibrations, the excruciating cries, the rebel chants. Lymph, blood, and gunpowder mingle in a stench which time has not yet succeded in completely dissolving. I must dig deeper, go furthrt down to find fonder memories, tales of a better life. I begin to find the first traces of crumbled marls and sandstone, and as I idg the detritus becomes ever larger, thicker, more closely packed until I find the most integral and compact layers where a special tool is needed to even scratch them. It is what geologists call flysch, composed of micro-organisms which crowded the seas of the Middle Lutetian period, approximately 45 milion years ago, but then, as a consequence of who knows what sort of mutation, died, were deposited and sedimented onto the sea floor. Now that the floor has been pushed up onto the earth's surface these microscopic fossil potozoa, enveloped in a mineral shell, are the cradle and the bed chamber of deep-penetrating roots, and here the vine fins food water to feed on. And once again the soil reminds us that the tragedy of death and the horror of decomposition are but the prelude to new and fertil life.