I am a kind of squatting, imposing insect, ready to spring into action in a moment.
I am very tall and very thin, with a heavy and tough exoskeleton covering my back and stomach. The exoskeleton, however, is incomplete, and leaves my sides exposed. My shape is that of a gourd, or a sort of half-tilted jug, when I stand upright. My muscles and guts are visible from either side and are stretched taut within my body. I am a cross-section of an insect, brought to strange life.
An unfortunate consequence of this physiology of mine: strangers often note my exposed insides and toy with them. I scream at them to stop, but they do not understand, and there is really no recourse for me but endurance. Because my shell is so durable and my muscles can withstand various ministrations, I am a very long-lived insect. I have become rather stoic over the years as a result of this treatment. It’s not all bad – occasionally, someone comes along and gives my muscles a pleasant massage. Often, their doctoring makes up for any earlier abuse entirely, and I thank them profusely. There was a particularly kind entomologist who kept me in his study for many years, and I was well-loved there.
I have seven fat little legs, which barely touch the ground with their very tips – mostly, I’m supported by the bottom of my shell. These legs are manipulable, and I often shift them, kicking uselessly like any other insect would if it were knocked onto its back, but this uselessness is by design: if I were to begin moving along the ground with such stubby extremities, the effort would likely end in disaster. When the mood takes me, I like to rock back and forth, not to get anywhere, but just to feel the air moving. This can be a dangerous game, but I enjoy it.
I eat little, if anything, but I require certain temperatures to thrive. My exoskeleton contracts and expands when the weather gets too hot or cold, wet or dry.
Sometimes, for very long periods, I am placed in a warm, close, and oddly furry environment. A pouch for an arthropod is a strange thing. I have come to understand that this heralds a visit to the country doctor, who will remove my insides and sometimes varnish my shell, and as I struggle to retain my consciousness he will begin slowly replacing my intestines or tightening them inside my belly, until I am restored to health. The nerve endings that attach my guts to my exoskeleton are many in number, little black dots that are sometimes turned to change the arrangement of my insides, their tension…such manipulations are not unwelcome, but a little sickening, and I am glad when they are over. It’s my responsibility to grimly cling to life as he conducts his surgery.
I am occasionally given the chance to hold grand conversations with other insects, and we never speak of low things, but always the best that our natures have to offer – we speak of universal emotions and demonstrative lives, the highest joys and the blackest, most evil, tearing pains; philosophies of men long dead and the great ideas of art, science, government, natural history, and literature. These friends of mine are as old as I am, strange bugs with their own surgeries, their own habits and lifespans and histories, but we manage to find something in common in certain well-lit arenas. Presumably, these meetings are between professional entomologists who guard their specimens jealously – or at least never leave their sides, or certain scientific fairs, I suppose. One fellow I have gotten along well with at such events is like a stick insect, legless, and with canes held at his side – his coat is covered in silver buttons, and the props support his frame so he can speak clearly. He is an old soul like I am, and we’ve exchanged much over the years, so that I almost feel a brother to him despite our differences.
One day I suppose I shall topple, or grow too hot, and my exoskeleton will crack apart, spilling the matter within over the floor in a tangled mess, but I am content, for I hold on to my whims and my soul yet.
verso folio 