The penis plant in my yard, and fake cleaning my room.
My blog has become a tad too serious lately, so now I’m going to write about the penis plant in my yard and fake cleaning my room.
Last fall, a succulent in my front yard sprouted a huge appendage. It seemed to appear suddenly, several feet long, though it must have grown over time. The succulent was already impressive, elegant and jurassic, waist-high and a vibrant shade of green. The appendage (what else do I call it? a branch? an arm? frankly, it looks like a penis) grew perfectly erect at first, with a curve at the top. Over the months, it begin sag over my chain-link fence, taunting passersby, an obscene tongue protruding from an alien mouth.
I got swept up in the 12/21/12 solstice/Mayan/end of the world hoopla, and had fun imagining the appendage speaking to me on 12/21, that it sprouted with the purpose of guiding me through doomsday. I’ve saw other plants like this around Koreatown, and someone told me these plants bloom only once in their lifetime, then die. How tragic! How romantic! Week by week, I watched it get bigger, then it began to blossom little white flowers. I realized I was able to track the plant’s progress because this was the longest I’d stayed at my house, in Los Angeles, in America, in probably 5 or 6 years. I’ve been an international travel junkie. It’s easy to feel cool to yourself if you can say you’re soon traveling to Brazil, are in Brazil, or just got back from Brazil. Especially if your life at home is high-anxiety and high-stress.
Now, the monster in my yard is in full bloom, and weighed down with flowers. It’s so beautiful, and knowing it will soon die forever, makes me emotional, and makes me wonder what I’ll do with the carcass. I’ve come to embrace my lil plot o’ land here in Koreatown. Noisy, dirty, cramped Koreatown. I’ve got a yard and a huge penis plant and they’re mine to take care of, my few square feet of the earth to make beautiful.
The plant blooming made me realize the change of season, and so I got inspired to spring clean my room. Beth came over for dinner, I put on a fancy dress, and she took the below photo of my “clean” room, and a photo of the truth: I just stuffed everything into my closet. Because I’d rather write than clean. And because if there’s one good thing about being an adult, it’s that no one can make you clean your room.