My first apartment was at 15101 Magnolia Boulevard. I was 23, fresh out of college, and the only thing I knew about magnolias was they were sometimes made of steel. Not that I thought much about the name of my street. I was on a mission. I had just graduated with distinction from the best university in the country (That's right, Harvard, I said "best". Suck my Lux AND Veritas.)and was all set to claim my birthright as a successful actor in Los Angeles. No time to think about flowers, or trees, or flowers on trees.
Irony is only delicious when it's being served to someone else. So it is that, as I've contemplated the magnolia tree flowering outside our kitchen window over the past week, thinking about whether the fact I started my LA journey on Magnolia is metaphorically relevant, I've found myself struggling to force my own generous portion of irony down. Suffice it to say, that as I pursued my budding dream at 15101 Magnolia, it might have served me to know a little bit about how magnolias bloom.
To begin with, they bloom big. (No pansy ass little blossoms here. No, sir. Bloom big or go home.) Since they refuse to settle for smaller blossoms, flowering takes a while. You look out one day and see all these little slivers of white poking their way out of the ends of the branches, but then you've gotta wait a couple weeks for them to actually turn into recognizable buds. But it's worth it, you tell yourself, because they're going to be SOOO freakin' beautiful. And you're right, when the buds appear they are impossibly gorgeous. They look like enormous rose buds, ivory bulbs that make you think of soft-serve ice cream on a summer day. And if you catch them blooming, you realize why it pays to bloom big. Because when it happens, it's nothing short of spectacular.
Except for the fact the magnolia's flowers seem to start dying from the instant they bloom. Blooming big has its consequences. The bigger the bloom, the harder it is to sustain it. And if all your blooms are that big, you must continuously look to the newest ones and let the previous ones die. And they don't die gracefully. They sometimes don't even last a day before collapsing onto themselves in an ugly brown mess. When I went out to take pictures of the flowers, it was almost impossible to find a beautiful new bud that wasn't set in contrast to a decrepit "old" one.
I know! I know! This metaphor is as subtle as an offering plate. But this is the way my mind has been working through magnolias for over a week...I came to LA with a big dream. Several big dreams if I'm honest. Actor, writer, singer, successful business man. I started off at Magnolia Boulevard. Maybe it means nothing, or maybe it means everything. But for ten years, I have had dreams bloom spectacularly only to shrivel to wasted vestiges of former glory.
What does this all mean?
I guess it depends on what part of the picture you're looking at. It's pretty hard to deny that the dying flower is hideous. It makes me think of Dorian Gray's portrait, absorbing the sins and excesses of its subject, a decrepit reflection of unnatural beauty.
But looking at the bud, it's damn near impossible to wish it were anything different. Isn't it? I mean, no one looks at magnolias and wishes they were something that lasts longer, not if that means them becoming something smaller, less dramatic...something other than what they are at their core. Their root.
Sigh. No easy answer here, I'm afraid. Which, I fear, is exactly the way I tend to like it.
A few days ago, our neighbor came over and told Sharon that our magnolia was flowering more than she'd seen it do in years.
Well, at least there's that...whatever that is.
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