Fresh New Fecundity: As If Spring Had Sprung
Sure, it's still winter, but this heat wave has everyone thinking Spring has indeed sprung upon us. I went for a great run today (18 miles, 2880 ft gain) through Castle Rock State Park and one thing I couldn't help but notice was all the new overgrowth on the trails, fallen trees and branchs, and hella freakin' bugs! I must've eaten at least 20 bugs of various sizes and species - not intentionally, of course, but as I run through the trails I have to breath and this is when the little bug bastards just fly right in. I don't take it personally, for they know now what they do, but it's annoying. A few got into my eyes and ears. It's part of trail running, so I ain't exacly complaining.
All the plants, the river banks, all of nature, including the bugs think Spring has sprung. Imagine the life of such a bug: live a few weeks, and in that time, fornicate your ass off all day long, HURRY!, and make as much offspring as you can, 'cause you gonna die real soon. Got it? What a life! Millions of little insectoid Hugh Heffners pimpin' around making babies galore. Then, you die.
As a man gets older, and he's single, like me, he starts to wonder if that is too his purpose in this life, on this earth. This cycle of nature as it births and dies, births and dies, over and over again, some long extension of growth and degenration, each little bug a part of it, each little man himself a part of it. Surely, the soilitary man asks, there must be more to it than planting my seed so that other may live and I may die. Surely there is some larger thing of which I am a part and permits me to continue on when my earthly vessle, my skin-encapsulated ego runs its course and comes to the end of the line. Surely God doth not mock me!
Little Bug, O' Microcosm of my manly life cycle,
Why you fly in my mouth?
Why you bone all day long?
Flyin from bug ho to bug ho,
Makin' sure your species lives another round.
Ah, the weak, flimsy verses of an amateur. Put the pen down lad, give up the werds, and get busy making babies! You want a purpose? Make another human being.
Rabbie Burns said it better, when he asked his mouse:
To a Mouse
WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
Sure, it's still winter, but this heat wave has everyone thinking Spring has indeed sprung upon us. I went for a great run today (18 miles, 2880 ft gain) through Castle Rock State Park and one thing I couldn't help but notice was all the new overgrowth on the trails, fallen trees and branchs, and hella freakin' bugs! I must've eaten at least 20 bugs of various sizes and species - not intentionally, of course, but as I run through the trails I have to breath and this is when the little bug bastards just fly right in. I don't take it personally, for they know now what they do, but it's annoying. A few got into my eyes and ears. It's part of trail running, so I ain't exacly complaining.
All the plants, the river banks, all of nature, including the bugs think Spring has sprung. Imagine the life of such a bug: live a few weeks, and in that time, fornicate your ass off all day long, HURRY!, and make as much offspring as you can, 'cause you gonna die real soon. Got it? What a life! Millions of little insectoid Hugh Heffners pimpin' around making babies galore. Then, you die.
As a man gets older, and he's single, like me, he starts to wonder if that is too his purpose in this life, on this earth. This cycle of nature as it births and dies, births and dies, over and over again, some long extension of growth and degenration, each little bug a part of it, each little man himself a part of it. Surely, the soilitary man asks, there must be more to it than planting my seed so that other may live and I may die. Surely there is some larger thing of which I am a part and permits me to continue on when my earthly vessle, my skin-encapsulated ego runs its course and comes to the end of the line. Surely God doth not mock me!
Little Bug, O' Microcosm of my manly life cycle,
Why you fly in my mouth?
Why you bone all day long?
Flyin from bug ho to bug ho,
Makin' sure your species lives another round.
Ah, the weak, flimsy verses of an amateur. Put the pen down lad, give up the werds, and get busy making babies! You want a purpose? Make another human being.
Rabbie Burns said it better, when he asked his mouse:
To a Mouse
WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
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