Talking to Bugs

I want to call the bare sky my ceiling some day. I’ll have to get rid of my fear of bugs first, though. Maybe “fear” is too strong a word – dislike? Passive annoyance? No, it was definitely fear before I lived in Peru for six weeks, but after enduring a scarring case of the fleas and waking up with a scorpion on my chest I must feel as if my war wounds have proven my worth to the little creatures because lately I’ve caught myself talking to them. “Ok ok, I get it. I smell funny,” and "What do you want from me?" and the sort.

The response I get from bugs is exceedingly more interesting than the response I get when talking to pets because pets will love me regardless of the things I tell them, as long as they receive my attention in return. Bugs will never love me and they are never attention-driven. They are impartial to my words, which makes me feel it even more necessary that they hear me. Their needs surpass surface level; they go straight for the blood.

They are desperate, and I am not. I have the upper hand.

At least until a malaria-carrying mosquito or a poisonous spider decides he wants me.

Perhaps I need more bug trauma in my life to dissipate the looming “worst case scenario” I imagine will ruin my bare sky, but for now, when the stars seem to overlap each other and the trees whisper a lullaby to coax my slumber and the bugs find someone else’s sweet blood to suckle, only then will I call the bare sky my ceiling.

The Cardboard Box Rule

I took a yoga class for a few weeks from a 16-year-old instructor and thought it a pity not more people are like her. Not only because she knew what she wanted in life at a young age and made it a reality, but mostly because all her belongings fit into a single cardboard box. She graduated from high school early and intends to travel to teach yoga wherever she pleases, so she limits her possessions to make transitions quick and smooth. I found the cardboard box rule even more intriguing while packing to move to Austin a few weeks ago. I packed about a fifth of my belongings and still was a long shot from fitting everything into a box.

Sometimes I want to live in poverty just to see how I would handle it. I would go to restaurants with no intention to buy a meal and wait for a table to leave so I could shovel their leftovers into my purse and casually walk out the door, as if the menu didn’t offer the kind of food I wanted. I would pitch a tent in the middle of a field and call it home and count the stars and my blessings at night. I would count the stars as my blessings. I wonder what kind of person I would be if I grew up bathing in the ocean, traveling by boxcar and writing and reading by candlelight.

Resourceful, for one thing.