moths. no butterflies

bobo got me a pack of macro lenses, so i tried them the other day.  i
know i should have used a tripod or at least a stack of books to steady
the camera, since that's what you're supposed to do, right?  but
sometimes i have a hard time being careful and precise, so i just shot
away before i got distracted.


the moth was on the sill: mustard-yellow, with it's legs curled up;
beautiful even in death.  but every time i went to click the shutter,
it would come into focus for a second, then snap shut with a blur in
one place or another, or all over. 


this is how our limbo-life feels right now -- i want to do and see and
try so much, but only manage a little bit at a time; i try to take
care, but can't truly commit, or immerse myself completely.  some days
are quiet, quiet, quiet and i don't want to speak a word, and others are
filled with chattering anxiety about polar bears and elephants and the
man we saw on the street today, homeless and drunk with a beer in one
hand, a can of dog food in the other and nothing else.


anyway, the moth on the sill.  it's still there, days later, lifeless
and lovely all at once.  and so it follows that i'm mostly good and also not, all at once --
like you were a week or two ago.  it seems that i get especially maudlin when it
comes to moths and swimming pools and grandparents as babies.  and the london zoo three lifetimes ago.


here's the antidote that i'm imagining right now:  that we are on our
atoll in the pacific, drinking tequila, bellowing old mexican songs (aaaaaaaaiii aii ai, canta no llores!) and shooting our pistols up into the night sky.


what do you say?