Theme Friday: Flower In My Hair
He brought me a flower like the Andalusian girls used all the way from Fort Riley through the capital city to Quincy Magoo’s and I set his flower on the table in between us and I did not wear his flower in my hair
as I was not a flower of the mountain, wearing red
and I was a cornfed kid from Lucerne in a hayseed sweater and Levi’s jeans
and I left his wilted flower on the table at the bar and when he asked me in the morning over hashbrowns and chicory coffee if I’d remembered to bring his flower home I should have told him
yes I did yes with my mind racing mad
and I pressed it between the pages of Portrait Of An Artist but instead I smiled and changed the subject because
I didn’t know a thing about Andalusians back then.
***
Christine (chooser of this week’s theme) and Annie take on Flower In My Hair.
September 24, 2010 at 03:03
[...] Clancyjane wears a crown of flowers on her head~ [...]
September 24, 2010 at 03:03
[...] Where did Christine’s flower lead? What flowers are in Clancy’s hair? [...]
September 24, 2010 at 10:31
Weren’t the Andalusians the Vandals, from where we get the famous word?
I sense this is an Americanized Andalusian reference, for which I’m as clueless as the narrator.
I like the stream of consciousness form. I like the cluelessness of the guy; how a flower is supposed to make up for anything he might be lacking. How he never really knew you.
I like the idea that he might have been a Vandal of some sort.
September 24, 2010 at 21:17
I’m not sure if he was a vandal, but a soldier, certainly. You’re right on the money re: stream of consciousness. I’m referencing Joyce’s Andalusians from Ulysses.
September 24, 2010 at 11:01
I looked up Andalusian and what I came away with is the idea of the man in question feeling the flower a romantic gesture would turn the speaker from a ‘hayseed’ into a flamenco dancer. And that the speaker, thankfully, remained herself.
The most lovely of hayseeds.
I like how it flows seemlessly from the bar to chicory and hashbrowns (I absolutely lurve chicory!) and the mad dash of mind to lie, but the smooth change of subject. That strikes a cord with me as your reader because I thought of all the little white lies women struggle under to save a man.
Who saves us? Not the flowers, and not the man.
September 24, 2010 at 21:24
Thankfully, I remained myself.
There is a song, too country for your comfort perhaps, but of which your comment puts me in mind:
Girls lie, too
We don’t care how much money you make
What you drive or what you weigh
Size don’t matter anyway
Girls lie, too
Don’t think you’re the only ones
Who bend it, break it, stretch it some
We learn from you
Girls lie, too
We can’t wait to hear about your round of golf
We love to see deer heads hanging on the wall
And we like Hooter’s for their hotwings too
Other guys never cross our minds
We don’t wonder what it might be like
How could it be any better than it is with you
September 24, 2010 at 11:42
This made me laugh. As Christine pointed out the lies we struggle under to save a man. Although in reversed positions the fellow probably would have said, ‘hell, no.’ I like more than anything that woman can’t be anything but herself. Great stuff, kiddo.
Annie
September 24, 2010 at 21:24
I like that, too, Annie. Even when it gets her into trouble.
September 24, 2010 at 18:20
Good golly Miss Molly! James Joyce would be a fan for sure. I hope you keep writing. Will I keep reading? “Yes I will. Yes!”
September 24, 2010 at 21:29
Mrs. Molly Bloom’s interior monologue is slightly more sophisticated (and a lot looser) than mine.
September 26, 2010 at 18:53
I laughed hard at those song lyrics. Probably too country for me too, but damn if those aren’t clever.