An English In Kentucky


















January 12th 2011    Tim Candler

    I sense a progress in my thinking, but the "Am I Still Here" side of the dialectic remains firmly in place because the answer continues to be "Yes". 

     However, The Artist tells me that mice eat the wings of hibernating Stinkbugs, which I suppose is something for a mouse to look forward to in the shorter days as he scuttles about trying not to be seen.  And also, The Artist tells me, that  Stinkbugs sleeping in a woodpile do not stink when they are tossed into the fire.

     It is the eyes of a Stinkbug that haunt me.  I think of those eyes as recording devices.  In the warmer days those eyes watch for the gardener's fingers, and then relay messages to those parts of the Stinkbug that can escape.   But it must be sad to watch your wings being eaten, and maybe worse to see yourself consumed by flame.

     No reason for me not to hibernate, because unlike a Stinkbug I can close my eyes.   And those crispy parts of me, hair and eyebrows, blotches and nails are well worth sacrificing.

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