It's that time of year--stink bugs and ladybugs coming in to stay warm and to cozy up with us. Even when I close my eyes for a minute, I see stink bugs. They are so disgusting, and they plop down on my page, and one somehow managed to find its way into my printer. The stink of cardamon and bug juice, nauseating.
They remind me of Kafka. How it might be to turn into stink bug, or vice versa.
And how painful and exciting any metamorphoses is. And all the assumptions one has about transformation. I like how we assume the butterfly is naturally more lovely and happy than the worm. But does the worm think so? The worm might love its simple sleek and pink body. Its moist, youthfulness. His simplicity. And being so close to the earth . . .
Here in lovely Virginia, I think of Ohio.
And so today, writing, I was playing with a version of Metamorphoses:
Opening his eyes one morning, a stink bug was alarmed to see that he had been transformed into a man. Clearly some terrible mistake has been made,” he thought, looking with horror at his soft skin, the huge dome of his belly, and worst of all, what hung between his thighs. What happened to his sleek rectangular form, his neat angular legs, his lovely pointy proboscis? he wondered.