I hate flies.
With a passion.
They are always buzzing around, around, around; back and forth, down, up, down again, around and around - and why don't they land? Why won't the little buggers land? Always right next to your ear, right by your head, never settling down, never landing. He - if the fly is a "he," because "fly" is too irritating a word to repeat too often - nearly touches the windowsill, and then as you are bringing the magazine back in preparation, he fakes you out and goes up to the ceiling again.
The buzzing must be akin to the nasally and atrocious "Nyah-nyah-nana-nyah!"
I suppose it can be attributed to convergent evolution - sharks always move, too. If they don't keep swimming, they will sink and die.
And if this fly ever stops moving, I'll kill it.
But wait. I still my hand and lower the magazine; my eyes stop their vigilant chase of the winged pest. What is this killing instinct? Why do I want so badly to kill this fly? Because it buzzes? Because it is mildly annoying? Because I am disgusted with its stupidity - both, there is an open window with a breeze coming in; why is the fly not buzzing near the screen? and, there is an open door nearby, with no one outside of it - no one in the hall holding a magazine and awaiting his splendid demise!
A fly so intelligent as to refrain from landing near me might as well not fly near me at all! For in a sudden jerk of reflex I might reach out and grab him whole in the upswing. But of course I could never stand having a fly in hand. I could never crush him between my fingers. I would have to endure the buzzing from within the prison of my palm until I could reach the very door that let him in, and then what? What if another one flew in the same way?
No, I am just going to have to endure -
Wait! What is this? He is stalling - the buzzing is stopped - as I look up from the glowing screen I see him settling on my lamp shade. I reach for the magazine, looking away - I look back again, quickly, and he is still there. Why don't you flee, fly?
I don't even roll up the magazine. The fly doesn't flee. Just sits there as the magazine gets closer, the Michelin Man grinning widely from his other-dimension of waxy paper.
The fly moves, not of his own accord. Down into - the recycle bin? Next to it? Well, victory and peace at last.
I look down at the magazine. Yellow drops. Oh... the Michelin Man has yellow... on...
I am at the sink. Drinking water. Drinking water... I shudder. So does my stomach... The tissue dragged across the Michelin Man's face, I mean dragged, like it held a grudge against me. I could feel every particulate of the splattered... I think about the fly's corpse, hiding behind the recycle bin.
I deserved to feel every particulate, didn't I? I mean, I put it there... My stomach shudders again. I drink more water. The room is really quiet now, only the whirring of my computer and my hasty gulps drowning the silence... why doesn't the computer's hum bother me?
The fly...
What is this killing instinct? What was the fly - he, I called the fly, I call the fly, he - doing that was so offensive that he deserved to die? What? Buzzing? Being there? Living? Trying to live in the same room as I was living in? And how dare he...
What is this killing instinct? Is this how we solve our problems as human beings? Of course it is! And it is everywhere! The British did it best, you know: You - you there! Yes, you! Step forward, and quickly. You are the leader here? Well, you are now. Listen closely. I have more guns than you. They fire more bullets, faster, than yours - and are louder; they make more smoke, you see? I have more guns than you. Stop doing what it is you are doing that bothers me - having something I want; following your own customs; having a culture of your own; having something I want; gaining rights; having something I want; achieving independence. That worst of all; it bothers me, see? So quit it all, this instant, or I will use my guns. Quit it all, or I will splatter your yellowish insides all over the... Michelin... Man...
... It is so very quiet in here...
We are fighting an ancient battle, you know - "man" and "fly" - as I sit back down at my computer and resume the chat in which I am currently engaging to avoid my Spanish homework. Spanish - another form of communication that is supposed to help us understand each other. And yet the Spanish did it second best!: Oh, hello. Nice little empire you've got here. Pardon me. I'll just overpower you, nice and easy. There we are. Gunpowder, you know. The Chinese use it for entertainment. Entertainment! So do we. No need to run, it'll only take a few moments of your time and the spilling of a lot of blood... well, your blood, anyway... pointless yellowish goo... there we go. Hey, don't sweat it. Jesus did it too. And speaking of Jesus... !
Why not fight man-on-fly - man-on-man? Use your fists and brute force, rather than guns, you Britons, you Spaniards! An arms advantage does not give you the right to take something away so swiftly and efficiently...
But now I am a hypocrite, of course. Did I not say that I could not possibly stand the idea of crushing the fly with my bare hands? I cheated. I cheated. Instead of destroying the little buzzing life myself I asked someone else to do it. The Michelin Man, of course, was at my immediate disposal, and all too pleased to carry out the deed. I suppose he is all too used to it by now...
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm!
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a god to form!
The gracious Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed,...
Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.
Who wrote this poem? I think of it every time I do something like this - give in to that horrid killer instinct that quite possibly kept my ancestors alive and breathing... At the cost of crushing the windpipe of another thing so recently alive.
Should it really matter if it was fly or freeman? ant or aborigine? centipede or civilian? They each have a heart that beats, a heart that pumps life-blood throughout; they each have eyes and ways of moving. Each is alive. This I know, and life I crave - always...
And yet there is that killing instinct that hides in a corner of my mind, saying, if a fly ever again dares to intrude here - lands on one of the chairs - it shall fly no more - indeed, it shall soar limply down, to come to rest without a bounce on the carpet next to the recycle bin.
What remarkable and fragile creatures we are.
And so easily biodegradable.
With a passion.
They are always buzzing around, around, around; back and forth, down, up, down again, around and around - and why don't they land? Why won't the little buggers land? Always right next to your ear, right by your head, never settling down, never landing. He - if the fly is a "he," because "fly" is too irritating a word to repeat too often - nearly touches the windowsill, and then as you are bringing the magazine back in preparation, he fakes you out and goes up to the ceiling again.
The buzzing must be akin to the nasally and atrocious "Nyah-nyah-nana-nyah!"
I suppose it can be attributed to convergent evolution - sharks always move, too. If they don't keep swimming, they will sink and die.
And if this fly ever stops moving, I'll kill it.
But wait. I still my hand and lower the magazine; my eyes stop their vigilant chase of the winged pest. What is this killing instinct? Why do I want so badly to kill this fly? Because it buzzes? Because it is mildly annoying? Because I am disgusted with its stupidity - both, there is an open window with a breeze coming in; why is the fly not buzzing near the screen? and, there is an open door nearby, with no one outside of it - no one in the hall holding a magazine and awaiting his splendid demise!
A fly so intelligent as to refrain from landing near me might as well not fly near me at all! For in a sudden jerk of reflex I might reach out and grab him whole in the upswing. But of course I could never stand having a fly in hand. I could never crush him between my fingers. I would have to endure the buzzing from within the prison of my palm until I could reach the very door that let him in, and then what? What if another one flew in the same way?
No, I am just going to have to endure -
Wait! What is this? He is stalling - the buzzing is stopped - as I look up from the glowing screen I see him settling on my lamp shade. I reach for the magazine, looking away - I look back again, quickly, and he is still there. Why don't you flee, fly?
I don't even roll up the magazine. The fly doesn't flee. Just sits there as the magazine gets closer, the Michelin Man grinning widely from his other-dimension of waxy paper.
The fly moves, not of his own accord. Down into - the recycle bin? Next to it? Well, victory and peace at last.
I look down at the magazine. Yellow drops. Oh... the Michelin Man has yellow... on...
I am at the sink. Drinking water. Drinking water... I shudder. So does my stomach... The tissue dragged across the Michelin Man's face, I mean dragged, like it held a grudge against me. I could feel every particulate of the splattered... I think about the fly's corpse, hiding behind the recycle bin.
I deserved to feel every particulate, didn't I? I mean, I put it there... My stomach shudders again. I drink more water. The room is really quiet now, only the whirring of my computer and my hasty gulps drowning the silence... why doesn't the computer's hum bother me?
The fly...
What is this killing instinct? What was the fly - he, I called the fly, I call the fly, he - doing that was so offensive that he deserved to die? What? Buzzing? Being there? Living? Trying to live in the same room as I was living in? And how dare he...
What is this killing instinct? Is this how we solve our problems as human beings? Of course it is! And it is everywhere! The British did it best, you know: You - you there! Yes, you! Step forward, and quickly. You are the leader here? Well, you are now. Listen closely. I have more guns than you. They fire more bullets, faster, than yours - and are louder; they make more smoke, you see? I have more guns than you. Stop doing what it is you are doing that bothers me - having something I want; following your own customs; having a culture of your own; having something I want; gaining rights; having something I want; achieving independence. That worst of all; it bothers me, see? So quit it all, this instant, or I will use my guns. Quit it all, or I will splatter your yellowish insides all over the... Michelin... Man...
... It is so very quiet in here...
We are fighting an ancient battle, you know - "man" and "fly" - as I sit back down at my computer and resume the chat in which I am currently engaging to avoid my Spanish homework. Spanish - another form of communication that is supposed to help us understand each other. And yet the Spanish did it second best!: Oh, hello. Nice little empire you've got here. Pardon me. I'll just overpower you, nice and easy. There we are. Gunpowder, you know. The Chinese use it for entertainment. Entertainment! So do we. No need to run, it'll only take a few moments of your time and the spilling of a lot of blood... well, your blood, anyway... pointless yellowish goo... there we go. Hey, don't sweat it. Jesus did it too. And speaking of Jesus... !
Why not fight man-on-fly - man-on-man? Use your fists and brute force, rather than guns, you Britons, you Spaniards! An arms advantage does not give you the right to take something away so swiftly and efficiently...
But now I am a hypocrite, of course. Did I not say that I could not possibly stand the idea of crushing the fly with my bare hands? I cheated. I cheated. Instead of destroying the little buzzing life myself I asked someone else to do it. The Michelin Man, of course, was at my immediate disposal, and all too pleased to carry out the deed. I suppose he is all too used to it by now...
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm!
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a god to form!
The gracious Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed,...
Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.
Who wrote this poem? I think of it every time I do something like this - give in to that horrid killer instinct that quite possibly kept my ancestors alive and breathing... At the cost of crushing the windpipe of another thing so recently alive.
Should it really matter if it was fly or freeman? ant or aborigine? centipede or civilian? They each have a heart that beats, a heart that pumps life-blood throughout; they each have eyes and ways of moving. Each is alive. This I know, and life I crave - always...
And yet there is that killing instinct that hides in a corner of my mind, saying, if a fly ever again dares to intrude here - lands on one of the chairs - it shall fly no more - indeed, it shall soar limply down, to come to rest without a bounce on the carpet next to the recycle bin.
What remarkable and fragile creatures we are.
And so easily biodegradable.
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