September 8, 2016--The Fly (Part Two)
Clearly, I did not get much done--
With Gloucester's wanton boys and Blake's blind hand infusing my reveries, when a late summer fly began to circle as I worked at the computer, as he proved to be unusually persistent, rather than turning further to metaphorical thoughts about the arbitrariness of existence, with killer's lust, I reached for the swatter.
Where were those blind hands and wanton boys when I needed them as I slashed ineptly? I needed them in the now, the very real now and not in poetic speculation.
The fly's first attack was to my head and face which meant I needed to put aside my writing to deal with the pesky threat. I was on a run of thoughts and words and resented the interruption.
This is my space, I felt entitled to assert, you belong outside. That is your world, this is mine.
Quickly he staked out my balding head and exposed ankles for frontal assaults and then when I fended them off more with slaps of the hand than swats, thinking this would tire him out and prepare him for the kill, he took a very different tack.
He landed on the computer table just out of reach, seemingly not because he was in a state of breathless collapse.
I raised the swatter slowly behind him, thinking his rearview vision was limited and that would make him vulnerable. But alas, well before I was able to launch my thrust, he lifted off and took again to buzzing my head. But only for a moment as he returned to the same spot n the table he had just occupied. This time tracing a small circle where he had alighted.
With Gloucester's wanton boys and Blake's blind hand infusing my reveries, when a late summer fly began to circle as I worked at the computer, as he proved to be unusually persistent, rather than turning further to metaphorical thoughts about the arbitrariness of existence, with killer's lust, I reached for the swatter.
Where were those blind hands and wanton boys when I needed them as I slashed ineptly? I needed them in the now, the very real now and not in poetic speculation.
The fly's first attack was to my head and face which meant I needed to put aside my writing to deal with the pesky threat. I was on a run of thoughts and words and resented the interruption.
This is my space, I felt entitled to assert, you belong outside. That is your world, this is mine.
Quickly he staked out my balding head and exposed ankles for frontal assaults and then when I fended them off more with slaps of the hand than swats, thinking this would tire him out and prepare him for the kill, he took a very different tack.
He landed on the computer table just out of reach, seemingly not because he was in a state of breathless collapse.
I raised the swatter slowly behind him, thinking his rearview vision was limited and that would make him vulnerable. But alas, well before I was able to launch my thrust, he lifted off and took again to buzzing my head. But only for a moment as he returned to the same spot n the table he had just occupied. This time tracing a small circle where he had alighted.
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| Lear & Gloucester |
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:32 AM
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