eihnachtskäfer
Later, toward dusk, several enormous water bugs, a very dark
reddish brown, emerge like elves from the wainscoting, and go lumbering toward
the larder-pregnant mother bugs too, with baby translucent outrider bugs flowing
along like a convoy escort. At night, in the very late silences between bombers,
ack-ack fire and falling rockets, they can be heard, loud as mice, munching
through Gwenhidwy’s paper sacks, leaving streaks and footprints of shit the
color of themselves behind. They don’t seem to go in much for soft things, fruits,
vegetables, and such, it’s more the solid lentils and beans they’re into, stuff
they can gnaw at, paper and plaster barriers, hard interfaces to be pierced,
for they are agents of unification, you see. Christmas bugs. They were deep
in the straw of the manger at Bethlehem, they stumbled, climbed, fell glistening
red among a golden lattice of straw that must have seemed to extend miles up
and downward-an edible tenement-world, now and then gnawed through to disrupt
some mysterious sheaf of vectors that would send neighbor bugs tumbling ass-over-antennas
down past you as you held on with all legs in that constant tremble of golden
stalks. A tranquil world: the temperature and humidity staying nearly steady,
the day’s cycle damped to only a soft easy sway of light, gold to antique-gold
to shadows, and back again. The crying of the infant reached you, perhaps, as
bursts of energy from the invisible distance, nearly unsensed, often ignored.
Your savior, you see… - Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow