corpse flower

I’ve refreshed my browser at least twenty times today, hopeful to spot the first inklings of a flower about to unfurl. It’s the corpse flower, a tall phallic spadix, bulbous bottom, that blooms once every year or two for just a few days, emitting an odor that’s described as “hot garbage” or even “corpse”. It’s my current muse. 

Seeing it in person the first time before it had bloomed, I was captivated by how unreal it appeared, like paper mache, plastic. It was unworldly and magnetic, pulling me toward its force. 

There it stood in all its glory: prominent, upright, ready to burst at any minute. On its own time mind you, not ours. The horticulturalist kept saying “it’ll be today”. Then the next day, “today”. Then one day, she admitted, “maybe today? tomorrow? next week?” I can relate to both the flower and the horticulturalist. I’ll do things when I’m ready but also, who can predict when that is?

The force I feel pulled by is the corpse flower’s power. It’s height and mass. A flower, something we think of as delicate and easy to topple, this one reaches heights taller than humans. It’s thick and can weigh up to hundreds of pounds. I’ve heard it described as warm to the touch, able to feel its pulse. It takes up much space, not concerned with needing to be demure or dainty. It redefines what a flower can be.

I’m drawn to its creativity. The smell, compared by some to rotting meat, is meant to attract pollinator insects to ensure its survival. Some of us have been forced to learn whatever it takes strategies to thrive. 

I’m drawn to its pride. On display all day, a live cam captures its every movement, but it never disguises or shrinks itself. It’s not a morning glory, opening and closing, it does and has to remain exposed. Where could it possibly hide? That kind of vulnerability has also become my lifeblood.  

I imagine what it will look like when it's open. Searching images of its brethren at their big unveiling. I can see myself seeing it, refreshing the page to find it is finally open, airing out, unleashed, its full, magnificent self. Its noxious scent clouding the senses of everything around it.

The day my partner and I woke up to find it had started to bloom was a Thursday. Partially open like a mouth agape, the live cam showed it beginning to reveal the most intimate parts of itself. We canceled appointments, moved meetings, and drove to the conservatory as soon as we could. It was tempting to risk waiting until the next day, but our voyeurism took the wheel. 

We waited two hours, snaked through the entirety of the greenhouse, ducking under draping ferns, mesmerized by the bloated, calloused nubs of a pruned fig tree we saw along the way to meet her. It wasn’t the worst place to shuffle along in a packed single file line. 

The longest time waiting was spent in the Sunken Garden, the conservatory’s seasonal floral space. Petunias, begonias, and snapdragons framed the bodies of anxious-corpse-flower-purveyors piled in, waiting for our brief moment with the smelly, floral spectacle. As if we were at a ball waiting to greet royalty.   

To her it was just existence. A means of fully coming into one's own. Something she had prepared for years and years. To us, though, it was an event, a rare special occasion that brought strangers together from all over. The people in front of us, a group of college students, even asked, “What are we here to see?” Word got around that something magical was happening at the conservatory and people came in droves to see, sometimes, of what they weren’t even sure.

When we entered the room where she was displayed, the air was already holding onto her scent signaling it wasn’t far to go before we’d meet. At first sight we could only see her from behind. She seemed tired, but still powerful. Fanned out, her bloom like wings, like outstretched arms, ready to receive us all. Saying, “I’m so glad you’re here, even if I’m not for much longer.”

As we walked around the rotunda garden, we caught her from all angles, and there were none that didn’t flatter her. When we were just across the garden from her, I felt a sense of calm. In the frenzy to get there, the anxiety waiting for the bloom, being in her presence felt grounding. Approaching her, flies swarming, nose-diving into her open bodice, I took in every inch of her. Every glossy reflection, every spiny crease in her skin, every fold. The deep purple of her insides. The ridges of her bloom. The girth of the spadix. Together my partner and I leaned in toward her, reached out our arms, and smiled for a selfie. A moment together and then just as quickly we were hurried along for the thousands of other people wanting their moment in her aura. 

While we walked a few feet away to make space for the next photo op, we looked back to continue watching. She was unabashedly Titan Arum, a mouthful, an eyeful, a noseful. After weeks spent watching her, after only mere moments spent beside her, I was certain that corpse flower was not here to please us, albeit we are fully amused by her. She is here only to be her complete, true self. And for once, we’re willing to accept it.