Tears are only water, and flowers, trees, and fruit cannot grow without water*

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image _foxy on Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/27395274@N00/  licence https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/

I was obliged to take a walk into town today, due to transport issues – GOSH-DARN INTERNAL COMBUSTION ENGINES, WHY WERE THEY EVER INVENTED?  But there were compensations along the way, abundant compensations.  Primary amongst these were the vetches in the hedgerows and the woods – multi-headed purple vetches, and purple vetches are almost my favourite vetches.  (Apart from birdsfoot trefoil, and that’s an unfair competition, because birdsfoot trefoil is also colloquially called eggs-and-bacon in the UK, AND HOW CAN ANY DECENT WILDFLOWER BE EXPECTED TO COMPETE WITH THAT?)

Vetches are the prettiest things.  The internal combustion engine is the annoyingest thing, but vetches are the derndest prettiest things.

Also the blackberries are not quite yet finished off – or pissed on by Satan and rendered inedible, as the folklore has it.  (It’s the maggits in wild brambles that bother me more than Satan’s theoretical outdoor hedgerow slashes while out on the piss.  Copious amounts of salted water, to deal with the wildlife, can render them uneatable anyway.)

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image Andrew Barclay https://www.flickr.com/photos/electropod/ on Flickr https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

There were even some unripe blackberries still hanging high, fruit and flower everywhere, nature in profusion and gloriously fertile.

It rained a little, and I’d forgotten my brolly.  But I didn’t feel I had too much to complain about, all told.  I came back with biscuits, after all – and biscuits are the comfortingest things.

*Brian Jacques.

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call of the wild

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“He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive.”

― Jack London, The Call of the Wild

Image – https://www.flickr.com/photos/internetarchivebookimages/ via https://www.flickr.com/commons/usage/

another installment in the creepy-crawly saga

Spiders, right?  Spiders, beetles, creepy-crawlies, things that crawl over your hand in the night…  Except that maybe the spider that crawled over my hand wasn’t a dream after all.  Because the night after, my partner screeched out a great yell from the bathroom, and I went running hell for leather to see which leg he’d broken.

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He hadn’t, though.  No, he’d spotted a spider on the wall.  A great, fat, juicy, gross monster of a spider, that looked like it couldn’t possibly be a UK national, must surely have smuggled itself in under a bunch of bananas.  The kind of spider that Brexit was invented for, that’s almost enough to put you off the ideal of the free movement of peoples – and spiders – across borders.

And then he took a newspaper and he splatted it.  No searching about for a cup to coax it into, no throwing it out unharmed into the night.  Poor Mr Spider, I am sorry all over again!  It was a monster, though.  But doesn’t a monster spider have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of Mrs Spider?  Arachnid rights, people!

What’s it all about then, arachnids of my manor?  Spiders of the ‘hood, what’s the word?  What are you trying to tell me?

I think maybe I really ought to begin on my serial of ‘The Entomologist and No-Spidersman’.  I’m afraid of what might come visiting otherwise.

Image – USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab, public domain.

 

Hence, you long legged spinners, hence!

 

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And continuing with the creepy-crawly theme of this blog recently, I had a dream last night.  Well, I think it was a dream, or not.  Or else I woke up in the middle of the night, reached out to the nightstand for my phone to check the time, and –

 

a spider ran over my hand.

 

Checking, this morning, it must surely have been a dream.  Because according to my partner – who sleeps lightly – I did not wake him up by screaming the place down.  And also, there is a curious fogged, vague, indeterminate lack of ending to the memory itself, which doesn’t lend it a lot of credence.

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If it had been for real, then I would have been haring around the bedroom, bashing anything that moved with a rolled-up newspaper and screeching my head off, for sure.  Not that I mind spiders.  Generally, I am pro-spider.  Just not when I’ve that second woken up, and the spider in question is ON MY FUCKING HAND.

That’s all.  I reckon the universe is sending me a message.  Possibly, ‘Crack on with that ‘The Entomologist and No-Spiders-Man’ tale, then, eh?  Where is it?’

 

Image – 1000iu Klvo on Flickr, public domain.

Image – Rob Mitchell on Flickr, public domain.

what have I got in my head AND WHY?

 

THAT!

‘Anyone knows an ant, can’t
Move a rubber tree plant

But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes
He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes

So any time your gettin’ low
‘Stead of lettin’ go
Just remember that ant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant…’

 

I seem to have insects on the brain lately.  I oughta write a gay romance about it – because you can write a gay romance about anything, right?  A superhero saga, maybe, about a mysteriously powered bug-collector and an arachnophobe – ‘The Entomologist and NoSpiders-Man!’

NoSpiders-Man’s spandex would have to be a photo negative of Spiderman’s, of course…

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

I had the windows open this morning, while I wrote.  And while in a daze, wondering whether to throw in a few fifty-buck words just to piss off Hemingway, I became aware of a buzzing.

A buzzing, a rustling, a frantic hum, coming from behind the curtains where they were bunched up.  And when I went to have a look, it was an insect, bouncing around behind there.  Frantic with captivity, wings flickering and building up to an aggressive whine if it didn’t find the exit bloody quick.

A fly.  A fly!  OH GOD A FLY!  I ran and grabbed household antibacterial spray, found fly spray in the cupboard under the sink, ran back and MACED THAT FUCKER.

Then I got a bit of a closer look, once I’d calmed down, and it was all still and quiet and deaded.

Oh, but it wasn’t a fly.  It was a beetle.  A harmless beetle, just faintly wobbling one feeler as he wobbled off this mortal coil.  Damn it.  I’d jumped to conclusions, freaked out a bit, gone into battle: and now one poor beetle had paid the price.  He’d probably come in on a bike or a jacket earlier in the day.  He didn’t mean no harm, honestly guv!

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And now, hours later, I still feel just crummy about it.  Oh, poor Mr Beetle, I feel absolutely awufl.  I’m so sorry.

 

Image – Fowler, W. W. (William Weekes), 1849-1923; Donisthorpe, Horace St. John Kelly, 1870, public domain.

 

 

wow. and cats.

Since I began blogging this past year, it’s been such a joy to discover cat inspired artwork all over the world. I am amazed every day by the unending inspiration that the feline form (and temperament!) provides. Although I love so much of the art I find, certain cat artists quickly became favorites – and…

via 8 of Kitty Curator’s Favorite Cat Artists — Katzenworld

How adorable are these?  I need a cat.  I also need a print (or preferably an original) by every single one of these incredibly talented artists.