So I had a much longer, probably more profound post planned. It’s about whimsy and TV or whatever intellectual frame I could wrap around my current entertainment choices, making my binge-watching seem noble. But life gets in the way of our best intentions, and it did in fact get in the way of mine this week in the form of a pest control visit. Don’t be alarmed. I’m not dealing with a bed bug situation...
*knocks on wood*
*lights a candle*
*leaves sliced limes in the corner of my apartment*
I mean something just as annoying but easier to get rid of: roaches. It’s not a complete infestation. The heat wave has not only inspired me to wear less clothes, it’s also inspired a few brave Periplaneta to cross my path. They don’t want it with your girl. And that is why instead of writing the planned post, I spent yesterday and early this morning rearranging my apartment - emptying closets and drawers, turning the world asunder - to make sure every crevice gets zapped with bug spray.
Yet despite my animosity towards those six-legged foes, I can’t help but be amaze dhow widespread and how long they’ve lived. Their Latin, scientific genus “Periplaneta” implies they are all over. They predate dinosaurs and have survived Ice ages, plagues, and misbegotten presidential elections. They’ll probably survive any nuclear strike North Korea has up its sleeves. Human longevity doesn’t seem as promising. With each passing day there’s a sign that humans might don’t make it. Global warming, our unruly child, will be our undoing in the greatest mass matricide in human history. So maybe a better thing to think about is whether having children is sustainable instead of writing a blog?
The fact that humans even spend energy trying to analyze what they do and why instead of just doing - even the mundane - fascinates me. I wonder about the first person who wrote navel-gazing fair about disliking their meal or pissing in chamber pots being meditative in the face of feudal uprising. Or something.
These - the thought of roaches living in perpetuity despite the battle I wage in my apartment, the world approaching its sixth mass extinction event, and my writing being non-unique - are debilitating ruminations. Dwelling on them could leave me stuck on my couch, probably stoned, and unable to move.
And then I’ll remember that I need to move everything in my apartment back to its starting spot, and I’m back in motion. At least until an Antarctic glacier strikes, kicking off the new Water Bear Age.