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.

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11 Responses to “Theme Friday: Flower In My Hair”

  1. […] Clancyjane wears a crown of flowers on her head~ […]

  2. […] Where did Christine’s flower lead? What flowers are in Clancy’s hair? […]

  3. 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.

    • clancyjane Says:

      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.

  4. 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.

    • clancyjane Says:

      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

  5. 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

  6. Anonymouse Says:

    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!”

  7. I laughed hard at those song lyrics. Probably too country for me too, but damn if those aren’t clever.

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