Promenading back from the kitchen the other morning,
listening to Mingus’, “Jelly Roll”, (you can’t walk listening to that tune, you
need to saunter,) I was thinking, as one does, about the great bass-man’s
autobiographical account of him splashing about in a pool with twenty-six
Mexican whores, when suddenly, my murderous instincts were piqued.
I noticed something moving on the floor. And in that moment I was back on the Lower
East Side, prepared to corner and kill a roach.
I approached carefully now. I had ceased to sashay. The bug didn’t move. It just sat there and waddled a bit. This was not the stillness of Manhattan water
bug, utterly aware, antennae whipping about, prepared to move unexpectedly,
with remarkable effectiveness . . .
No. On closer inspection, it
wasn’t a roach at all, which would have been gone by now, but rather, an
earwig.
Earwigs always remind me of my grandmother’s house, which is
now my children's grandmother’s house, in Poughkeepsie, New York. When I was young there seemed to have been an
awful lot of earwigs in the basement.
They move about slowly, no more than two centimeters in length. They have this particularly nasty looking pincer
at the back of their abdomen, where a tail would otherwise be, that is, I’m
told, used for defense and to capture prey. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earwig
The word isn’t exactly a madeleine
from Combray, but “earwig” does have the power to transport. “Earwig” of course, sounds nasty. “Centipede”, “dragon fly”, and certainly
“beetle” all have rather more positive connotations. “Earwig” is tough to redeem. Nothing with
pincers should be any where near your ear and “wig” can only suggest a dirty
old mop of fake hair from which some bug or series of bugs would stage their attack into your external auditory
canal. A quick check on Wiki and I’ve discerned
that the word comes to us from the Old English ēare, which means "ear", and wicga, which means "insect". Back in the day, 829 or so, when King Egbert
of Wesex defeated Wiglaf of Mercia, people used to believe that ēare-wicga,
laid their eggs in your ear.
Lovely.
According to the Anglo Saxon Chronicle Egbert, was named
Ruler of Britain shortly after defeating Wiglaf. But it could not hold. And only one year later, Wiglaf had retaken
Mercia. These were battle-hardened men,
who fought mercilessly for the right to rule places like Mercia. They were tough men, from a tough time. One can imagine pincer-laden beasties climbing up and out of the Eustachian tubes of gents with names like Egbert and Wiglaf.
And none this passed before my eyes in a flash, as I faced
off against the earwig on my floor. He
moved slowly. And because he did, (you
see, “it’s” already become a “he” in my mind), I no longer wanted to kill
him. Calloused Pitt and Delancey Street
instincts, hardened over years of ruthless roach and water bug skirmishes, had
ebbed. He seemed defenseless. I went to get a piece of paper.
He continued to plod on.
I could have fired off another email by the time he'd ambled to some dark
corner. Returning, with a pamphlet, I
coaxed the harmless little fella, pincer and all up on to the paper and
escorted him to the front door where he was deposited, unceremoniously on to
the stoop, in the cold morning air.
Where possible, we should try to escort bugs out the
door. It’s a bit more effort but its
probably the right, life affirming message for the kids. This particular earwig though, lived to pincer another day because of his inability to defend himself. I’m not sure if that lesson is nearly so
utile. If he had darted, I would have
sprung. Because he plodded, I felt
empathy for this Triassic-like creature.
I’m not yet arguing for 普济众生[1]。
I, for one, could not be a Jain. Mosquitos? Leeches?
Clearly we’re in combat and I will kill you if you approach my
body. Flies? You’re not hurting me, but your skilled,
capable and annoying. Swatting and generally missing you
arouses the most elemental of passions that dissipate rather quickly when you are tired, bouncing about pathetically against the window glass over and
over. Yes, sometimes it's the ugly,
plodding vermin that gets your sympathy.
Dare I say; there’s no sport in killing you.
Elemental urge.
Candid admission. Not much to really
separate us from the rough and tumble days of Egbert and Wiglaf. Evolution takes quite a bit of time.
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