The inaugural post in an occasional series! (I was going to call it Random Element, and then I thought no, let’s honour the fantabulous sf short story by John Wyndham. Excellent, recommended, go forth and read it!)
In this series, I’ll take a random element – words out of a random word generator online, out of a casually grabbed book, a snatch of conversation on the radio – and interpret them. Or possibly interpret the results of inputting these few random terms into the searchbox of a website – Twitter or Youtube or any one of a number of others. Interpret, in the sense of give meaning to them, a nudge from the Universe, a voice in the (tinfoil-hatted) head, a prod between the shoulderblades.
Hey, it’s every bit as valid as friggin’ astrology, ‘kay? And it keeps me amused, out of trouble and off the streets. Where’s the bad?
Today’s random quest – soup, ant, knee. And knitting. I always want to add ‘knitting’.
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.)
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.
Three platonic human buddies take a break. Skiing week-end, great idea right? So do three werewolf friends, likewise. They end up sharing a ski-lodge: and it’s cool. Until it’s very hot indeed: when one of the wolves goes into heat…
Image – Metassus https://www.flickr.com/photos/metassus/ licence https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/
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.
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.
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.
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.
‘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…