some days shake me. literally i mean vibrating, approximately 65 maybe 70 khz, not quite entirely steady to the eye, though most of them are averted before they know it, it’s misdirection, i do it, & i’m good; well, i manage i … [this is the part where i nearly really screamed – if i had actually screamed, you’d have heard, oh yes & you’d be shaken too] why?
because [goodgod. the black bee. pretty (dead) as you please in the center of a big white piece of paper on my motherfucking computer table]. i told him it would be in the sink still. & he said there was no bee, or that it would have gone down the drain. he said i was making it up so i’d have an excuse not to do dishes. & he knows i’m phobic to the extent even dead bugs give me the skincrawls like crazy. & since i was neither making the bumblebee up nor wrong about it fitting down the drain, & furthermore in consideration of the way i overcame sheer fear the likes no nonphobic person could imagine to slay the beast (it was scaring my little guy bad) he thoughtfully left me this this bigass drowned monstrous thing, this bristly black marinated bumblebee corpse. my victim back to haunt me. & fuck me if i can’t still hear the echoes of his engine of a buzz as he battered the windowpane, not even a nightmare this is, not even two feet from where i sit, a sort of welcome home dear. oh. and it is brilliant.
i mean look at it, perhaps the single most perfect metaphor ever crafted, it’s art is what it is, powerful & simple & pure. it is the embodiment of everything the last dozen years have given me, a symbol so definitive i could spend the next dozen years trying to find the words for it & lose those too. enough of that. now.
as i was saying before the … the bee, i have days i quiver in quiet desolate hunger & other [ok look the fucking thing moved i … um. maybe not.] … other days i damn near dazzle, well until that frail waif i’ve half become goes all delicate shivery & withdraws & defers. she does wistful so relentless, you can feel the sand sucked from under your soles as she recedes.
she gets menaced by dessicated specimens of her fears, yet is admittedly at this minute perversely captivated by the thrill of sitting writing coexisting holding her own. she is … she is not me, & all is not lost & even if it is, i refuse to cooperate; generally this defiance changes things, usually dramatically. fueled by delusions & inspired by irrational hope, i invent myself anew (yes again, nevermind how many times before, or how many more, look i’m good at this.)
& it begins, as most things do, with passion. so, is it this force & not my own weakness which fuels this trembling? no, i admit, well, not quite, not yet, wait a little, won’t be long. long, now, long is how i’ve been so cold, & oh a body does chatter & shudder to fend off freezing death. & fear is of course part of the process, however it is desire which sends me shivering as i type this last line, almost …
blissful. at least until i noticed – it moved, it did, the bee, really. measurably. & i assure you i am not currently hallucinating, insane, kidding, or making shit up. there is a waterstain on the paper, the bug was on the stain, now, it is not. it is dead, yes. it is just dead a good inch from where it was dead a few minutes ago, is all. you’d need the phobia for a frame of reference to understand the significance of this, i suppose.
sometimes things shift, & write their own allegory; i just take notes.