He couldnt sleep. He lay there eyes wide, tapping his foot, thinking of death, then of sex, Bugs Bunnys physique, the condor, news, the story of the last jaguar shot in Arizona, the earthquake in Italy, somewhere in the North of the boot, the politics, the intrique, the excruciating boredom of politics. Why were humans so concerned with politicians? Outside the wind gusted against the bedroom window, his wife lay next to him, sleeping, pregnant, mouth slightly open. What was she thinking about?The new president was liberal, handsome and pedantic. His actions were the same as the last ruler, only the new man did it with a learned hypocricy. As his mind went over this word, his wife stirred.Hypocricy... Her breath already smelled of babys breath: that whisper-smell of sweetmilk, of fresh air.As if the baby were breathing thru her. Would my baby be a liberal, he thought?A conservative? Ill teach it right, he said aloud. Rolling over he lifted the coverlet and put his mouth inches from the protruding stomach of his wife: Government is bad. All politicians are evil. Nature good. Animals and lakes and fishes:good. Sky and sun and rain and trees:good. Average people are good, Obama is a fuck. Bush is a moron. The baby kicked. His wifes face turned into the sleeping equal of a frown. He kept whispering this odd cant, or prayer or nonsense: Yea, tho I say unto you, young babe, the earth is not of itself, you are not of it, but of me and my wife, we belong to each other, we are a family, a small cell of the human animal, the disease of us are our dreams, the manifestations of our failings is our governments, with these we become parasited, a hall of mirrors, and Gregor Samsa stands fists to his head, weeping at his change, what hath god wrought? Screams he, screams a babble a gurgle, a sound not of himself, disappear that image....baby? Shhhhhhhhh, regardless of the worlds suicidal obsession, it is worth it, to be here, to have hope and dreams not bought from humanity, but that emanate from oneself, stark urgent dreams that only children and the mad have, and it is worth it, my dearest, to change, from angel into insect, into what we call adult, but in truth we are worse than the dead, for our knowledge brought us to naught.
Nothing. Nihilism , albeit with butter. A sweetness like a popped mushroom, dry spores floating away to seek purchace in dark earth...and then? Growth. Change. Always in the shadow of something larger that could come crashing on top of you.
