Being a fly? That was one of the worst incarnations, though it was relatively hygienic, you know, constantly washing my little hands. For me anyway. For anyone else? Godnose what those little hands of mine were carrying.
But you probably saw a lot of interesting things while you were hanging on the wall. What was the most interesting wall you remember?
Walls are not all that interesting.
I was thinking that as a tiny little pesky fly, you must have heard some interesting things in some of the rooms into which you flew.
I like the artful way you did NOT end that sentence with a preposition. Gives me hope that all is not lost in the current educational system. Maybe you’re not all going to end up talking like Yoda. Barns were always the best places. Lots of chances to hide and lots of
gross good stuff to eat. Well, I was in an interesting barn once.
Where was this barn?
No idea, but as happened sometimes, a young girl gave birth. Her husband was with her. Back then — well, for most of the time humans have had domestic animals — people lived with their stock, their cows, pigs and so on, so it was not at all strange that the baby was born in a barn. I’ve been born in a barn several times. The recent fastidiousness and horror expressed at this is a bit of bourgeois amnesiac fiction.
Had you seen it before?
Of course not. A fly’s lifespan is about as long as his wingspan, especially as people are constantly trying to swat us. There was a movement to stand up for our rights in this regard as respected cogs in the machinery of decay and rebirth. But when the flies got together to protest, all that happened was that the swatter had the mother-lode of swattees. Definitely a bad plan and against our “survival of the fittest” imperative, but then, maybe those flies were just stupid and it all happened for a reason. I don’t know. It was before some of my times and definitely before my time as a fly. It’s part of fly legend.
Was the baby, you know, was it…?
What happened then?
I went over to check out the kid, you know, as any curious fly would and that was it. The mother freaked out and waved her hand to shoo me away. She nicked me, bent my wing. I could still fly, not well, but well enough to get out of there. I went over to the horse — horses are often pretty tolerant, I mean, yeah, they’ll stamp their feet or flick their tail but that’s about it. I stayed off their ears, though. There’s NO peace on a horse’ ear. That’s when I realized, the horse was Lamont.
Yeah. Almost every iteration I have run into Lamont somewhere. Glad of it, usually, though sometimes we did find each other on the wrong side of the kill-or-be-killed imperative. We did a little catching up, but, I wasn’t a young fly and now I was damaged. I knew I was at the end of my life cycle. I’d mated, laid my eggs — lucky to find a dead rat in the corner of that barn. It was just a matter of a few days at most. I asked Lamont about being a horse in this era — we’d both been horses in the Eocene and except for being prey, it was a lovely experience. He told me that this go around, his life as a horse was hard, but Lamont said he’d had worse. We both laughed ruefully thinking of our time as small mammals in the Pleistocene. Dark times, dark times and COLD. And LONG. I think Lamont and I showed up half a dozen times during those eons of frozen waste. But, we’ll save that for another day.
Thanks for being on the show.