There’s something about this flower.
You can see it growing in a ditch on the side of a nowhere rural road.
You can whiz by it on a highway, the petals bobbing in the drag from the cars and shaking off the exhaust as they soak up the sun and reflect the light out and about, bouncing it off the car windows.
But, try and grow it at home, and you may find it near impossible to locate. If you do find some to plant, it starts off shy, and skinny, and then, when you give it some love, it takes over, pushing to the front, looking for the love, the applause from the crowd.
It’s probably my favorite flower as it has my two favorite colors (orange and green) and polka dots, and those dots, in my opinion, are purple, which would be my third color choice. This flower knows me. And this flower is definitely on its way to a party. Not a bar, not a dance, a party, one of those parties in a crappy apartment that rattles to its bones every twenty minutes when the EL goes by; one of those parties that you walk to in shoes not suited to the cobblestones and ruts; one of those parties where the world outside smells like trash and cold wet cardboard, and the world inside that very important party smells like garlic and hot rice and too much cologne. The party is dark, not because of atmosphere, but because the tenant only owns two lamps, and people smoke unreservedly, and someone smokes cloves, and one intensely serious boy is in charge of the music, and all night long it’s slow, and moody, and alternative, and you’ve never heard any of it before, which makes him seem dark and mysterious and unknowable, and, then, he plays your favorite song.