(Based on a dream by J. Alfred Prufrock)
A wasp is a rude creature. It intrudes uninvited, seeking to make my home its home, without paying rent, or a single one of these bills, without lending a hand with the groceries, or helping take the dog out for a walk, without knocking when it enters, or saying goodbye when it leaves. And I’m often left thinking behind it. It bothers me that it has never introduced itself, or kept me even the most trivial company on those long nights after work. It seems not to acknowledge my existence, and that pains me the most. It flies when it likes, goes where it likes, and recognizes nothing beyond its own being.
And if I were not to reason this way (and I believe I have good reason)? Not even attention, let alone an apology. In fact it would further threaten me. It has done so in the past, when I approach to observe its incessant buzzing, its busyness, working, traveling, to and fro. And once, when I approached its nest, it well near chased me out of the room. No, to open my mouth and reason would bring me nothing but a nasty sting in the tongue. If I told the people at work I’m sure they would make fun of me. They take every opportunity for doing so anyway, so why should this be any different? They would think me making a big deal out of nothing, as if I didn’t have the right. Perhaps they would even think me insane. “Just kill it,” they would say, “What’s a wasp?”
What’s a wasp? What is it? An insect, nothing more. A large, flying insect. But I have to admit it’s a graceful creature. And it’s a subtle creature, so much more subtle than all these polite human cattle that surround me, that live next door to me and yet intrude on my sensibilities more than this wasp, this merciless monster in miniature that shares my home. So much more subtle is its pitiless will, a will as direct and unwavering as a straight line and as venomous and unyielding as its own sting. And yet it’s still more comforting in its deadliness than even the most comforting of my so-called friends, who waste no time in saying what they really mean behind my back. The wretches. And this wasp, gliding regally through this room, as if a discoverer, an adventurer, so elegant, so beautiful in colors of black and yellow lifted under the humming blur of its diaphanous wings beating incredibly in the air, an extraordinary cyclone of activity suspending its tiny universe in a balanced, floating stillness. It has no idea of how beautiful it looks, warding off predators courageously, looking danger in the eye without conscience, reason, emotion or fear, doing away with intruders in arrogant fashion, tackling other creatures for the protection of its nest and its future offspring, to reproduce, to bring forth life and then to perish, having run its course and lived its time. I must have looked a sorry sight; me, with my slippers, pyjamas and thinning hair, with a rolled newspaper in my hand, preying on this fine, lean, warlike animal with agile wings, a hard, poisonous sting, its sword, its weapon, bravely holding its ground with nothing but its own stoic countenance, unadulterated instinct and unswerving will.
And here I am, bloated wretch, of dead muscle, numbed nerves, rotted, smoke-infested lungs, of insipid intellect wasted over countless hours behind a desk in an office, a decaying mass of stifled passion, yellow, dead skin, thinning hair (have I mentioned my hair?), and eyes far too snug in their sockets to dare seek more. Here, in the extravagance of my waste, and with all the comforts that sustain this impotence – this affront to life itself that I awake to see every morning in the mirror – here I have the effrontery to prey upon the life of this fine creature for the sake of my own peace of mind, I who deserve none yet have all. And what is my future, what is my goal, where lies my destiny? How could I create new life when I have not even created and appreciated my own? How without a woman? How comrades when hardly a friend? How, when music makes sad and change makes weary? To be weary of oneself is horrific. I live this horror every day of my life.
I once had a dream in those few hours of sleep when oblivion loves me. In that dream I witnessed a swarm of millions in the shape of a giant hammer striking blows – huge thunderous blows – upon a large fatted calf that had such thick hide as deemed it impenetrable and protected it from any harm. It stood its stead and did not budge, standing firm as it had done over countless millennia, impervious and sullen, gradually getting older, the calf becoming a cow, even as the swarm had now merged with all the heavens, with all its angels and demons, to form one omnipotent, solid hammer striking blows that would tear the universe asunder, but not this cow. Like a wrath that had festered in the heart of a dark primordial longing, the swarms inflicted their vengeful force over and over again upon this unholy domesticated beast, inflicting a power that sought only to satisfy its own destructive malice.
And then, in a moment of respite, the thunder of the heavens dissipated. The swarm dispersed and the light shone through, once more, as dawn broke through and spread across the land like a hopeful embrace. And just then, this wretched cow that had suffered and endured the blows of the swarms and the heavens for thousands of years, this wretched cow began to crack and open, without a sound, without so much as a whimper, and it crumbled and fell as if it had all along been made of mere ashes and flimsy sticks. And as the cow was annihilated, from under its hide a cocoon appeared, warm, white and pulsating.
At mid-day there emerged a moth from the chrysallis, without bright, warlike colors, without the long, lean, dextrous limbs, without hard, armored skin. There emerged a moth of soft round body, of grey furry surface, with no penetrating weapon, but soft and yielding, of clumsy, slow beating wings, without the clear, lucid eyes, without the long black unfaltering antennae, without the fearsome beauty, without the hard warlike spirit that could take on and conquer the world.
In fact (and I remember this well) all it had were wings and the light, but it did fly.
