A year or so ago I wished for a black hole. It was an impossible wish, of course, and as the months passed, I chided myself for what seemed a whimsical descent into fancy. A black hole? In my lifetime? I would never be that lucky. So, I forgot about it…until the above image appeared all over social media and the news. I knew the sight of that burning ring, with its dark, unfathomable core, should have delighted me; but it didn’t. It freaked me out.
To make matters worse, while visions of black holes mushroomed across my timelines, so, too, did a story about a woman whose eye infection was caused by sweat bees nesting in her eyelid and feeding on her tears.
Last week, I was going to respond to other media frenzies, but let the urge pass. Trust me, I had built up a nice head of steam and had plenty to say; but because I knew it would get me more blow back than I wanted, I worked and practiced instead. Better to release that steam on productive endeavors and let my literary and musical works-in-progress benefit from venting.
But now there’s that hole, those bees…
And I do not have the steam to make them less portentous in this mad, regressive time. I do not have the words. I’d rather not be freaked out by nature’s timing, nature’s metaphors; I’d rather just be awed.
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