Mir sind die Trauben aber zu süß.

It’s pitch black… but I can see the darkness. There’s no air… but I can breathe. My face is buried in dirt, but it’s not getting in my nose, ears, or mouth. It’s just kind of smooth.

Wait. It’s not my face that’s buried. It’s all of me. It’s packed pretty tightly around me. But I can move… sort of. I can’t move my arms, they’re pressed down at my sides. But I can move my shoulders. Or wait. No, it’s my head. Then my shoulders.

This writhing has a reason. It serves a purpose. Otherwise I’d just lie still and wait for the end.

_______

One of the more intense dreams I’ve ever had involved a gigantic dark creature hovering directly over me, forehead to forehead, as I lay on my back in bed; it bellowed at me hatefully, “You’re nothing but sludge!!” The setting of that disturbing drama has led me to wonder whether or not I was actually sleeping at the time.

If I am the projected desire of an invertebrate, then this projection is nevertheless all-too often a beam of darkness. I am a prisoner, yet genetically forbidden to remain in my wormhole. Or in bed.

_______

A Onetime Summer Observation

A path of ants was marching to and fro, up and down the trunk of an apple tree. They didn’t need to think about it. Arbeit macht frei!

But one ant was being dragged down through the path by another. It struggled to get free the whole way down the tree.

This observation reminds me of how I would often see one shit-faced drunk Korean trying to escape the grasp of his more sober companion in an attempt to return to the Soju-tent to drink yet more of that ethanolic-concoction distilled to kill the voices in his head.

So, too, must that ant have had high hopes. I suppose he might have been an intruder being evicted from enemy territory. But I like to imagine that it had some genetic defect which rendered it incapable of serving the virtue of that robotic game of community chest.

Are we these creatures burrowing through the dirt; crawling out of land and sea; marching up and down the trees; and buzzing in and around and flying high above the earth?

Does our future evolve to the efficiency of the hive?

From the Wikipedia:

The drones’ main function is to be ready to fertilize a receptive queen. Drones in a hive do not usually mate with a virgin queen of the same hive because they drift from hive to hive. Mating generally takes place in or near drone congregation areas. It is poorly understood how these areas are selected, but they do exist.

Sounds like singles’ bars. Or Wall Street watering-holes; the Korean Soju-tent for the more affluent.

But if you’d rather be a worker, I’ve adapted the requirements from the Wiki entry on that section:

Honey bee workers sought. Supplicants will be:

[adept at] keep[ing] the hive temperature uniform
[able to] gather & carry pollen back to the hive
[responsible for] most of civilization’s food supply

So if I don’t wanna impregnate some queen, I’ve gotta get a job? Seeing as how I’ve been avoiding both all of my life, I wonder what that leaves me. Does my form of expression make a damn bit of difference to anything?

This projection – be it darkness or light, or the mad voices from any number of other creatures coping with existence – will not leave me in peace.

Druck aus der Fleischerei-Zeit

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