The Mimosa tree is a fuzzy tree that contains fuzzy flowers on it. The pink buds that look like sophisticated dandelions are particularly appealing. The flowers pre-bloom resemble very teeny green pinecones. It is good that they look so beautiful when then bloom, because otherwise no one would grow the plant out of free will. Flowers are grown to bring beauty.
Oddly enough, the flower’s name is derived from the Greek “mimos,” which means “mimic.” There are two common breeds of this flower whose name has compelling linguistic roots. One has leave which fold when exposed to heat and is native to southern Central and South America but has become a popular houseplant in other areas it has spread to. The other very common strain contains a psychedelic drug in its root bank, which seems very fitting.
Why shouldn’t a fuzzy flower produce/contain a drug? In my many experiences, all the people I knew who did drugs were deceptively sweet in the outside. Many people were not as open about their drug habits as they led people to believe. Sure, they may have told that they were completely willing to tell anyone who wanted to know everything, but this is far from true.
There is this guy that my friend knows. His name is Anthony Jones. He does every single drug imaginable. How come? No one knows for sure. There are some lovely theories circulating.
Anyhow, my friend ended up getting seated next to him on their first day of English this semester. She could tell right away that he did some serious drugs. There was none of this nonsense about using drugs that only had two names; that on the package and the scientific name. No, he was well beyond using those. It made sense, I suppose. He apparently used the drugs he did because their names amused him. Because that’s a legitimate reason.
While I could spend a good week or two going into detail about the various drugs he does or has even done so much as tried, it would be quite a waste of time. First of all, likely get the names of everything all wrong. But more importantly, my lack of expertise in this area would lead to so much misinformation that the story would be nothing but a beautiful lie.
So, back to how Anthony appeared obviously as one who does drugs. My friends decides to always dominate the discussion on anything. It does not matter if she actually knows anything about the topic in question or even if she cares to know anything concerning it. All she wants to do is show off how she knows more than anyone else there ever will, and wants to make it known that she is superior. This causes some wonderful problems, as she only knows things that are concerning mathematics or science and very little outside of those two realms.
She decides, of course, to enter in on a discussion about The Wizard of Oz, which created many potential holes for error. This is, of course, wonderful to hear about. Anthony, who surely knew everything about every single drug people should not do recreationally, he began by talking about the literary merits on the novel, which shocked many. He seemed to know what he was claiming to know. That much, at least, was very nice. Then they ended up getting into the notably famous poppy field scene. There may have been literary importance within that portion of the story, but I knew of a better reference that Anthony would not be able to pass up.
Anthony decided to go into the idea that poppy is otherwise known as opium. While I was not too stunned by this revelation, she was rather taken aback by the idea. Anthony went on and on about how the characters feel asleep because they had just come off of a major high, and, because they were nigh, their excitement beforehand is explained and justified.
For the conversation was one including many references only he understood, my friend exited out of it, more knowledgeable about many other things. There was one wonderful point: looks can be deceiving. He was a trouble maker with a horrible reputation. Yet, he sure knew a lot about what he claimed to know a thing or two about. It was very intriguing.
I thought back to the house whose door was hideous. The door which had a color I despised was also a color I longed to have gallons and gallons of. Within the house there were many rooms. Each of their doors were a boring white. At least the front door, as ugly as it was, had a color with a real name. As I entered into one room with a pristine door, it seemed to have décor and organization following a similar pattern. Everything had labels and was perfectly centered to the room and square to each other. Even the chair was in the very center of the desk, which was perfectly aligned square to the corner of the room. Even the papers were centered.
None of it seemed fitting for an artist. It was much too put together. It bothered me.
But, this did not prevent me from entering into the room and taking everything I could find. The sketchbook held together by magic still lay in my lap. There were sheets of paper boldly sticking out the sides, daring to announce themselves to the world. I took pity on them and let them be.
I was still curious as to what the pieces of paper were working so hard to conceal. Surely whatever I could find was going to be something worth sharing with the entire world. With only slight hesitation, I opened one up. The paper flipped up and I folded it back down.
It was not much of a shock that I had caught a small glimpse of nothing. That was simply what was on that page; nothing. It was disappointing. I had gone to all this trouble to find out details about an artist, and been met by so many setbacks and roadblocks along the way, that I suppose I expected to have an easier time once I got there. But, of course I didn’t get that. How foolish of me, to expect something to go my way. No reason for everything to shift now.
Anyhow, there was something, something that was not reason, that led me to believe that something was waiting to be discovered. So I flipped over some more pages. All of which ended up being completely barren of anything. I sighed in disappointment. It was exhausting.
I rested down the book and ran my hand through my hair. Sure, my short hair was not to be ruined by anything, but I was at a loss of what to do. The blank pieces of paper stared at me as I hopelessly stared at them. They were taunting me, mocking me. There was nothing more which I could do except for wonder if they would ever morph into something I could look at.
There had to be something. I turned the poor, now slightly abused, sketchbook upside down and considered looking at things from this perspective. I knew that people often hid things in plain sight, but this was an artist. Artists were more likely to hide things in hidden places.
“Well, looks like you’ve come to a conclusion, my dear friend,” a voice that I cannot place or recognize tells me.