MAKURA NO SOSHI: A WOMAN WHO LOVES INSECTS
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Monday, October 21, 2002
Mysterious Pumpkins


Ladybugs are everywhere now. I find them clinging to the curtains, inching across the linoleum of the kitchen floor, hunched in odd crevices and corners here and there. There is something oddly fluid about the way they slowly creep along . . . even though their legs are scurrying down below in jerky, mechanical synchronicity, all one sees moving are the shiny polished domes of their orange and black-spotted armours smoothly rolling forward across the floor. When I pick them up to take them outside, they seem like perfectly-halved, glittering lacquerware beans. Yesterday, I found a pair of them -- one glossy orange and the other more of a deep rust -- sexing each other up, flagrante delicto, on the arm of my Adirondack chair on the front porch. Afterwards, one of them split open the candy-shell coating of its back (smooth, Lamborghini-like hydraulics of upraised wings . . . the shocking glimpse of delicate, black-tissue-paper underwings) and flew away.


Last night, smoky roll of gray-black marbled clouds obscuring the stars. They were backlit by a hot, yellow spotlight of a moon, giving a bright, creamy butter-colored cast to their tender underbellies and wispy nebulaed edges as they slid across the sky. If you are a coldly twisting complex mass of cloud on the lam, does it mean that you can get burnt by the moon?


A fragrant mug of Cinnamon Hazelnut coffee warm in the hands and smooth across the tongue . . . splash of spice across the palate. The cats lined up like
Peas in a Pod, each absorbed in their own, private cat meditations.


The moths that appear at night now are darker -- sooty black or charcoal-grey wings -- and their bodies and wings are stockier, more heavily furred. As if they are bundled in ermine, or other soft fuzzy wrappings.


I stepped outside shortly after midnight last night for a cigarette, and found that someone had left me a present of pumpkins on my front porch! A large, left-leaning skinny pumpkin, and a round, squat pumpkin splashed and mottled in zucchini greens. Mysterious, anonymously-gifted pumpkins. Did they know it was my birthday? Did they have any idea how much the solid pumpkin weight, the dusty orange creases, this quintessential pumpkin-ness would fill me with intense pleasure?
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 3:59 PM |
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