Friday, April 29, 2005

The Fly is Dead

Long live the Fly.

Sticky, as I had decided to name the intrepid housefly, passed on this evening after some four days (since Tuesday) without food or water. His germy body is at rest on its side on the cold, aluminum window sill. Sticky looks as if he's sleeping. I hope he went peacefully, and that Republicans don't get their panties in a bunch over the unfortunate circumstances of Sticky's death.

I named him, because anything that's been in my house for more than three days gets a name and a water dish. A more attractive bug may have actually been given a water dish, and a name like PrettyBug or CutiePie. Sorry Stick, but you're no Lady bug.

If we could all take a moment, just a short space of silent reflection, to remember Sticky, and the qualities that made Sticky Sticky--which were his legs-- then maybe his short life will be given meaning that this wayward fly himself could never have imagined. And if we keep Sticky in our hearts--and he will be in mine--then his death will have not been in vain.


What I will remember most about Stick, is that he didn't give up. Hungry, exhausted, and scared, his hope and dream of freedom may have been renewed with every breeze blowing through the barbs on his legs. There must be a way out, he'd buzz. I'm going to try again; there has to be a door here somewhere.

A thing with prismed eyes must surely glimpse a multitude of doors, but he only needed one. In fact, he's found the hidden passage--a portal obscured by matter and the heavy concerns of life, and not easily opened. Sticky has stepped through a gate we can only wonder about in myths and ritual, as we pace the plane of our own mesh screens--noting its dimensions so that we might understand the barrier. There must be a way out.

Sticky found that rare door at last.




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