Lord of the Flies
I'm about to go on talking about the flies here, so consider this a warning.
Like outhouses, flies are not all created equal.
The fly had been buzzing circles around my head for ten minutes while I read, occasionally darting in random horizontal lines between my face and my book. I'd seen my mama gazda grab the flies in her kitchen with two fingers, something I know would not be possible in my apartment in Brooklyn--flies are just a bit more speedy in America, and perhaps a bit less haughty--I never knew what it felt like to have a fly land on my forehead before I came here. As I read, I sang Tori Amos just loud enough to drown the buzzing out of my thoughts. A I reached the same high note that I could never hit, I noticed the buzzing was now centralized, and frighteningly close to my right ear. Under the windowsill I saw the fligh, stationary, but not not because it had landed purposely or safely. It had gotten itself caught in a spider web, where a small and delicate spider stood, pausing from her work, to contemplate the intruder. The fly looked a though it was suspended in air, but both the spider and I knew Mr. Fly was stuck. Its legs and arms were moving frantically, as the buzzing became a consistent roar. No high notes, no low notes or lulls--a straight buzz, like an electric razor. I stared for a moment, assuming the fly's fervor would tear the web, freeing it to continue its circle game around my head. My eyes focused on my book once again, but only for the three seconds it took my to remember the fly. I now began to feel bad for it, as it tried to fidget its way free. Mama spider watched with the same amazement as my own, and I assumed she wanted this stranger out of her home before any of her babies arrived. And then the roles changed. The spider was no longer the victim of a break-in. She crawled right up to the fly and began batting at it, back and forth, alternating one strike for every leg. This lasted long enough for me to realize that she wasn't trying to free him, she was encasing him in the center of her home. The buzzing faded and the fly became successively lighter shades of gray, as she wrapped it, rapidly, ten, twenty times over. The fly lost--he was now a mere wall hanging in the house of this spider--I thought of my 7th grade subsititue homeroom teacher's amber ring--she wore it on her middle finger--with a fly mercilessly in the center.
Minutes later, I was curious about the spider's afterlife. In the exact same spot under the windowsill, I stared for a long time before I realized what was happening. The spider had gripped my fly firmly between her eight feet. She was squeezing as tightly as I imagined Matsui held his bat, enough to keep the fly in place, while allowing a bit of flexibility from her core. Her belly was pulsating as though she was making love to this dead fly. As the seconds past the fly became smaller and smaller, while the spider's belly became bright red. She was viciously eating the fly. Wings first. Despite how much it pissed me off earlier that day, I now felt immensely sad for the deceased.
Perhaps my fly story should serve as an idication that I don't have many others. I wanted to post to show life, now that I've moved to Rublenita, far, far from other Americans.
The day before I was about to leave, I found out the family I chose to live with decided to move it Italy. Thus my parnter teacher in all her glory, decided for me that I'd live with a different family in the village--a family I'd visited but hadn't had the chance to meet the parents. Moving day was a bit scary but it turned out just fine--my host dad is incredibly lax and goes out of his way all the time to make my life easier. My host sister was excited to tell me that she hadn't eaten anything in three days, save for a handful of grapes, because she wants to be the skinniest girl in her school. I new I had to jump on this though my Romanian skills wouldn't do the subject justice, but this didn't stop me from finding myself in a conversation about Type A personalities. I apologize to all the psychotherapists in the world, for my romanian created strong barriers in explanation.
For dinner the first night, my family put a plate of tomatoes in front of me, as they attacked thier chicken-jelly. No, you don't know what chicken jelly is because they don't have it in the states, or anywhere other than Moldova, I imagine. I had to explain that vegetarian doesn't mean six tomatoes for dinner. I cooked myself some buckwheat and they were glowing with happiness to see that I actually eat food.
I suppose that's it for now. I won't ramble on about flies anymore. I've been meeting with my parnter teacher to make our long term plan for the semester, fighting daily with her because she wants to have three lessons on communication and zero on nutrition. Apparently communication is more of a pressing issue? Did I understand her corrently?
Love.
Like outhouses, flies are not all created equal.
The fly had been buzzing circles around my head for ten minutes while I read, occasionally darting in random horizontal lines between my face and my book. I'd seen my mama gazda grab the flies in her kitchen with two fingers, something I know would not be possible in my apartment in Brooklyn--flies are just a bit more speedy in America, and perhaps a bit less haughty--I never knew what it felt like to have a fly land on my forehead before I came here. As I read, I sang Tori Amos just loud enough to drown the buzzing out of my thoughts. A I reached the same high note that I could never hit, I noticed the buzzing was now centralized, and frighteningly close to my right ear. Under the windowsill I saw the fligh, stationary, but not not because it had landed purposely or safely. It had gotten itself caught in a spider web, where a small and delicate spider stood, pausing from her work, to contemplate the intruder. The fly looked a though it was suspended in air, but both the spider and I knew Mr. Fly was stuck. Its legs and arms were moving frantically, as the buzzing became a consistent roar. No high notes, no low notes or lulls--a straight buzz, like an electric razor. I stared for a moment, assuming the fly's fervor would tear the web, freeing it to continue its circle game around my head. My eyes focused on my book once again, but only for the three seconds it took my to remember the fly. I now began to feel bad for it, as it tried to fidget its way free. Mama spider watched with the same amazement as my own, and I assumed she wanted this stranger out of her home before any of her babies arrived. And then the roles changed. The spider was no longer the victim of a break-in. She crawled right up to the fly and began batting at it, back and forth, alternating one strike for every leg. This lasted long enough for me to realize that she wasn't trying to free him, she was encasing him in the center of her home. The buzzing faded and the fly became successively lighter shades of gray, as she wrapped it, rapidly, ten, twenty times over. The fly lost--he was now a mere wall hanging in the house of this spider--I thought of my 7th grade subsititue homeroom teacher's amber ring--she wore it on her middle finger--with a fly mercilessly in the center.
Minutes later, I was curious about the spider's afterlife. In the exact same spot under the windowsill, I stared for a long time before I realized what was happening. The spider had gripped my fly firmly between her eight feet. She was squeezing as tightly as I imagined Matsui held his bat, enough to keep the fly in place, while allowing a bit of flexibility from her core. Her belly was pulsating as though she was making love to this dead fly. As the seconds past the fly became smaller and smaller, while the spider's belly became bright red. She was viciously eating the fly. Wings first. Despite how much it pissed me off earlier that day, I now felt immensely sad for the deceased.
Perhaps my fly story should serve as an idication that I don't have many others. I wanted to post to show life, now that I've moved to Rublenita, far, far from other Americans.
The day before I was about to leave, I found out the family I chose to live with decided to move it Italy. Thus my parnter teacher in all her glory, decided for me that I'd live with a different family in the village--a family I'd visited but hadn't had the chance to meet the parents. Moving day was a bit scary but it turned out just fine--my host dad is incredibly lax and goes out of his way all the time to make my life easier. My host sister was excited to tell me that she hadn't eaten anything in three days, save for a handful of grapes, because she wants to be the skinniest girl in her school. I new I had to jump on this though my Romanian skills wouldn't do the subject justice, but this didn't stop me from finding myself in a conversation about Type A personalities. I apologize to all the psychotherapists in the world, for my romanian created strong barriers in explanation.
For dinner the first night, my family put a plate of tomatoes in front of me, as they attacked thier chicken-jelly. No, you don't know what chicken jelly is because they don't have it in the states, or anywhere other than Moldova, I imagine. I had to explain that vegetarian doesn't mean six tomatoes for dinner. I cooked myself some buckwheat and they were glowing with happiness to see that I actually eat food.
I suppose that's it for now. I won't ramble on about flies anymore. I've been meeting with my parnter teacher to make our long term plan for the semester, fighting daily with her because she wants to have three lessons on communication and zero on nutrition. Apparently communication is more of a pressing issue? Did I understand her corrently?
Love.
posted by NikkiD | 6:15 AM
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