I know that the title of this blog may seem a little strange, but once you've read this post, you might understand why I chose it as my title. When I was about 17, I wrote this story. Years after I even remembered writing it, my Grandmother returned it to me. She had held onto it for me because she loved it and hoped I would do something with it. I hope you enjoy it as much as she does:
Under the hot African sky there is a field.
In the field there are many flowers. All the flowers look the same. They are all white with yellow middles.
In the community of white flowers with yellow middles is a family. In this family is a father, a mother and a little girl. They all have white petals with yellow middles The little flower family has always been very happy. The little flower spends her days swaying in the warm wind and singing songs under the shimmering sun with all her flower friends. All the flower children wave their white petals and shimmy their yellow middles together. The little flowers can’t imagine wanting anything more.
One warm day while the little white flowers with yellow middles were singing songs in the shimmering sun, a big truck pulled up alongside the small field. Out of the big truck stepped two big brown boots followed by two small red wellingtons. The red wellingtons stopped by the singing white flowers with yellow middles. A big hand reached down and picked up the little girl flower with the beautiful white petals and the golden yellow middle. All the flower children cried out for the little flower. They tried to hold her hands tight under the soil but the red wellingtons carried her away – far from all the other white flowers with yellow middles.
The red wellingtons carried the little flower into a big house. The little flower forgot to be scared because in the house there was so much to see. Much more than she had ever seen in the field filled with white flowers with yellow middles.
The little flower was placed in a vase. In the vase there were more flowers. But these were flowers that the little white flower with the yellow middle had never seen before. These flowers did not have white petals with yellow middles. These flowers had red petals with green middles. Beautiful red velvety petals with bright green middles. The little white flower with the yellow middle could only stare at these beautiful flowers around her.
The other flowers spoke to the little white flower with the yellow middle. They told her there were many more flowers like them. Even more beautiful than them, with different coloured petals and different coloured middles. They said there were so many different coloured flowers that the little white flower with the yellow middle would never see them all. The little white flower with the yellow middle missed her father and her mother and all her little flower friends but she really wanted to see all the other coloured flowers far away from the small field filled with white flowers with yellow middles.
The little white flower with the yellow middle felt the red wellingtons lift her out of the vase of red flowers with green middles and out to a garden filled with all the other coloured flowers. In the distance she saw the small field filled with white flowers with yellow middles and waved goodbye to them as she explained that she was going to find all the different coloured flowers far more beautiful than white flowers with yellow middles.
The little white flower with the yellow middle was amazed by all the flowers she saw. One was more beautiful than the next. There were red flowers with green middles, purple flowers and orange flowers, there were flowers of every colour and flowers of every size. There were flowers with thorns and there were flowers with tendrils. Flowers with leaves and flowers without. There were big flowers and small flowers and there were flowers that were tall and flowers that were short. The little white flower with the yellow middle giggled with delight and decided to stay amongst all the beautiful flowers far from the field filled with white flowers with boring yellow middles. The little white flower wanted to sway with the beautiful flowers in the warm wind and sing songs with them under the shimmering sun but the beautiful flowers ignored the little white flower with the yellow middle. They held hands with each other but the little white flower with the yellow middle could not reach that low so she watched. She smiled as she watched because it was enough just to look at all the beautiful flowers sway in the warm wind and sing songs under the shimmering sun.
Man sunny days went by and the little white flower with the yellow middle noticed that one of her white petals was becoming red like the flower she was leaning on. The little white flower with the red petal and the yellow middle was bursting with excitement. Perhaps now the beautiful flowers would let her say with them in the warm wind and sing songs under the shimmering sun. But the beautiful flowers did not notice that the little white flower now had a red petal. A few more sunny days went by and the little white flower leaned against a purple flower until one of her white petals became purple. Perhaps NOW the beautiful flowers would let her sway with them in the warm wind and sing songs with them under the shimmering sun. But the beautiful flowers still did not notice the little white flower with the red and purple petals and the yellow middle. But she stayed and watched the beautiful flowers because they were so beautiful to watch and she was so far from the field filled with white flowers with yellow middles.
Many more sunny days went by and the little white flower with the red and purple petals and the yellow middle began to feel weak. She
looked at her petals and noticed they were turning brown like the soil
she was standing in. the little brown flower was too wise to get excited. One sunny day the big brown boots returned and tossed the little brown flower into a big black bag. Inside the bag were many brown flowers just like her. The little brown flower was so happy to be around flowers like herself again. Perhaps these were her friends from the field filled with white flowers with yellow middles and they had become brown too. But the brown flowers were old and they did not want to sing songs with her and they did not want to sway their petals in the black bag.
The little brown flower tumbled out the big black bag and begged the wind to take her home to the field filled with white flowers with yellow middles. She had had enough of seeing all the beautiful flowers. She had missed swaying in the warm wind and singing songs with her friends under the shimmering sun. When the little brown flower got back to her field she ran to all her flower friends but they not want to sway with her in the warm wind and they did not want to sing with her in the shimmering sun because they did not know her. She was a little brown flower in a filed filled with little white flowers with yellow middles.
The little brown flower cried and cried. Until eventually the mother flower with white petals and a yellow middle wrapped her petals around the little brown flower and held her little hand and swayed with her in the warm wind and sang to her under the shimmering sun because she knew that the little brown flower was really still the same little white flower with the yellow middle.
THE END
There are those who love flying and there are those who hate it with a burning, fiery passion that could fuel jet engines. I am blessed to find myself in the second category. Whichever group you align yourself with, if you know what to look for, it can be very entertaining to take note of the assortment of folks you’re lumped with in your respective air socks.
Before I launch into what it is you ought to be looking for, I should explain that I am a chronic people watcher. A great night out for me is to sit at a quaint coffee spot, in a location with generous amounts of foot traffic and a steaming mug of something caffeinated. I find nothing more mesmerizing than watching the throngs of people walking by. There is a library of stories in each person’s brief visit into my line of vision. Their shuffle, their strut or their saunter gives away mysteries they may not even know. Whether or not they meet my eye or look away gives me a sense of the character of stroller I’m playing chicken with. And the snippets of conversation I’m privy to, often have me shaking my head and rubbing my temples. I’m fully aware that I am hearing shavings of conversations that could be extracted from a thesis of brilliance and wisdom, but forgive me for my nagging doubt. Anyhow, I digress.
I have noticed that there is a pretty precise template for the characters you will meet on your flight. No matter where you’re going or where you’re coming from, you will have your standard performers. Which is something of a comfort to those of us who find everything about hurtling thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube somewhat unnerving.
There is always the harassed mother. You know the one. She can be found trying desperately to exude an air of indifference while her child gives every passenger a deep understanding of the shape of their tonsils and the capacity of their lungs. She usually fails. I’m just saying. But coming from a family of four older sisters, each with a healthy number of offspring of their own, I feel a kinship with these women and I usually try and shoot them a dazzling smile of sisterhood support. Mostly that gets them whispering to said child not to talk to the grinning lady across the aisle.
One of my favourite airplane characters is the ‘narcoleptic’. The one who’s anal-optic nerve kicks in within seconds of finding their seat. These entertainers spend the flight jerking awake in the nick of time before toppling head-first into the aisle. A brief moment of confused blinking generally follows and the head lolling resumes. I enjoy this act tremendously.
Then you have the ‘golden retriever’. This is the person that stows their carry-on in the heaviest traffic spot they can find on the plane. Then, for the duration of the flight, they busy themselves elbowing people in the ribs, regularly displaying their armpits to the fortunate souls beneath their precious cargo and causing mild concussions with each dramatic reclamation of their critical possessions. It’s usually the earphones they stowed ten minutes earlier. The acute desperation for such items is nary unappreciated by their fellow passengers.
Every flight has a ‘techno-junkie.’ I guess this is the role I picked out of the stage directors hat. This is the individual who more often than not resembles a hospital patient. Pale and wan from sitting in an office for most of their lives and hunched over from many hours spent gazing lovingly into their computer screens. These are the people with every assortment of gizmo and gadget propped around their seat, and nudging ever so slightly into the personal space zone of their neighbor. They’ll usually grunt at the air hostesses when asked something before removing their earphones and absorbing the question posed at them. This person is usually awesome.
There is always a ‘traveler’. Someone who once heard of DVT and feels an urgent need to troll the aisles till the end of time. It’s sometimes confusing when you see them mooch past you through the corner of your eye and then minutes later they’re moseying by from the same direction. I always wonder why they never go the same way they came. I guess they want to get a tour of the entire aircraft. Being that the interior is so dynamic.
I can’t forget the ‘feeder.’ I believe there is an undiscovered condition that these people suffer from. From my perspective as an outsider, it would seem that they are unable to sit through their travels without chewing, gnawing or ingesting something, lest they starve. From the minute they are seated, there is a mad flurry of packages, bags and Tupperware being pulled from every which direction. Sandwiches are dished out to their fellow travelers, snack packets are opened with dramatic flair and the cabin is filled with the very appetizing aromas of their edibles. This activity usually takes place before meals are served and resumes once dishes have been cleared.
As you can tell from my liberal tone and broad-minded acceptance of my fellow passengers, flying is clearly not a hobby of mine. But I’ve started looking at it as I would an evening at the theater. I hand in my ticket, take my seat and wait for the show to unfold.
With social networks popping up faster than you can tweet about them, I’m watching myself turn into a micro-blogging, status mongering, +1’ing exhibitionist. Evolution? Or ego-centric regression?
I consider myself a sane, rational person. Not so long ago, I would even have called myself private. But after my fascination with watching other people splash their lives across social networks turned into a career, I was forced - as they say in the classics to “piss or get off the pot!”
Now I find myself checking into foursquare before reading the menu of the new restaurant I’ve been waiting to try. Or watching dolphins with my nieces through the screen of my ipad so I can upload the video to youtube. A funny story can never just be left at the dinner table - its contracted, condensed and hash-tagged before the night is over. While this has been brilliantly marketed as social activity, I cant help but wonder if we’re not just burying ourselves in our own self-importance. Essentially becoming less social because we’re too deep in our own flurry of exhibitionism to really get out there and socialize.
Now I’m not saying I don’t still sit behind the safety of my screen and judge my online peers, but these days its colored by the desire to uncover something worthwhile in their posts for me to share. It just strikes me as odd that this culture of sharing our most inane moments has been dubbed as sociable. Narcissistic seems more apt to me.
When it comes to brands however, the whole social space starts making alot more sense. Companies are compelled to advertise. It’s the cornerstone of business. Market to create awareness. But how do you create awareness in a room full of people screaming their own content into the oblivion? The answer lies in giving them something to scream about. Something that will add to their self-made towers of pomposity. If a brand becomes personal, it becomes relevant, because then people can claim it as their own content. Personal or current - if a brand is the first to announce something, then they can add to the credibility of the content seeker. Which is good for the brand and good for the g(br)ander?
All in all, we’re a generation of content whores. And when we have nothing worthwhile to share, we share anyway. I had this brilliant idea to start a blog so I could share this idea with you…
