Wednesday April 25th 2012 Tim
So totally pompous I
have become, so engrossed by the game of self, so happily inured to the
thinking of others, the odds are I'd be assigned a private tunnel by the
Community of Moles. Unfortunately there are Ticks. Those
little creatures that creep around on their eight legs, then suddenly
leap or somehow move great distances to grab hold of a trouser leg, or
shirt sleeve, then search for blood to suck. Which they do
hungrily and in silence. And when they are gone they leave both puss and
phantoms of themselves that also bite and tickle and itch and scratch
and may explain why it is I am suddenly drawn to the shaved head, and
why I am no longer amused by the word 'Babesiosis' and its familiar
symptoms. But which cannot possibly explain why I have also
explored both the known and unknown facts about flesh eating Bacteria.
Traditionally, it was always The
Artist's role to manage the theatre of ticks and the consequence of their
tricky nature. And I realize how excellent she was in the choreography
of her expression through movement, dance and word. But I guess she
has been tastier than I, or perhaps I should stop hogging the Strawberry.
In the good old days my own role was a simpler one. I'd comfort with
proclamations about the dangers of Tick deterring chemicals.
Occasionally suggest a visit to the hospital for a bite that was
particularly unpleasant to look at. I'd hint at the possibility
of Tickborne Fevers that decimate human populations, a most slow and
agonizing end. And in the good old days too, it was The Artist's role
to describe minutely and in endless detail the qualities of the seven or
eight varieties of other biting things that are sometimes mistaken for
Ticks, and which might well have arrived from the Amazon Delta attached to
the feet of creatures that migrate, and which also leave a person twitching,
sleepless, bad-tempered and yearning for The Rapture.