September 23, 2009
Whisper the stinkbeetles: we are on the wrong side of the window, by any point of view.
The artist whispers: Three at a time, if you are compliant and kind. An offer of exodus.
The stinkbeetles whisper the terms: do not fold, spindle or mutilate the stinkbeetle.
Whispers the artist: Everybody stays calm, nobody gets hurt.
Two at a time, one glass per two minutes, whisper the stinkbeetles.
Eighty-nine stinkbeetles.
An hour and a half of travel time, whispers the artist.
Think again, murmur the stinkbeetles – for every five that are escorted out the door, another two come in.
Whisper some: The mathematics are still in the artist’s favor.
Whisper others: but marginally.
At which time the discovery is made that stinkbeetles, driven to nervous anxiety, emit stink resin.
Oh dear, whisper all species present.
Cumulatively.
A cumulous cloud of noxious acrid fumes.
Everyone vacates.
But the stinkbeetles can be heard to whisper from the boxwood hedges: Gone, but not forgotten.
Night falls, whispers the artist.
Light calls, whisper the stinkbeetles.
As the stinkbeetles enter, they whisper, whispers the artist.
Pray for rain, my child, they whisper.
Rain, whispers the artist.