Psycho Bug-word to the wise

Besides assiduously avoiding the Bandersnatch and the  jaws that catch, we  need to be contantly on the alert for “persons of interest” and ever aware of the “terrorists in our midst,”  but must also be on guard  for the  invasion of alien species  overtaking the native environment.  Somehow we’ve lost the  basic skills to communicate life’s lessons and timeless instruction through myths.

Myths, we tell kids, are fairytales. Nonsense.  Stuff of fluff. Fantasies.

But myths are really the greatest way of timeless communication regarding life’s secrets. Wouldn’t it be  ever so much better to concoct a story about the Psycho Bug who did an amazing trip on   deathcap mushrooms (fliegende pilze), than to  rant on about the dangers of psychedelic drugs?

So here’s the Psycgho Bug who tripped too much on the locally available, nonUSDA-approved mushrooms that grew out in the woods at Srbsko.

Once there was a Georgie Boy of Srbsko, who against his mother’s insistant warnings, took an avid interest in the local flora and  fauna. He collected mushrooms and experimented in a myriad ways to consume them. He had them fried, frittered and sauteed in butter sauce.

He ate them for breakfast with his cornflakes. And occassionally, when he was bored, he had them in math class when the sun shone too strongly through the prison windows of his school.

It wasn’t that he was a juvenile delinquent or a bad boy. He was just plain bored and people didn’t understand the brilliant ideas he had in his head.

He was just so addicted to their bright red color that he couldn’t get enough of them and finally his poor little  buggy brain fried.

His mother cried. The  local hospital sent her such a bill that she couldn’t pay it in  a thousand years and the police wrote up a report that  needed  clipping shears to shorten it.

And none of this really had much effect on poor George who was only delirious without  them.

But the gods, being  as malevolent as they are, heard the poor woman’s tears and saw the police report that needed the clipping shears, and decided that something had to be done.

“You see that,” snorted Juno, who was never known for any kindness whatsover, “He’s breaking her heart.”

“Right-o,” replied Mercury, who is supposedly a patron to all things mercurial, including health, “So he is.”

Jersey Tiger Moth Euplagia quadripunctaria

“Well, do somethng about it,” Juno retorted. “It’s  in your department since we all know that the feelings of ecstasy are ephemeral.”

“Right-o,” said  Mercury who vanished without explanation.

And so from that day, to this, you can find the Psycho Bug flying about in the weeds at the back of your garden

or hanging about down in Srbsko

And of course, his mother  was left with all the bills, but  was relieved of funerary expense.

icarus

 

Wise words he gravely said,

“Now, remember my son,

don’t get close to the sun

because you’ll get fried.”

Security

 

retreat inside for hidden security

and cling to the fine things outside

the end

 

when you come to the end of the lupine,

try to fly.

Don’t crawl back down to the ground.

Map

 

Lost, we seek a map

to our existence;

meaning to our meaningless lives

fragile wings

battered in life’s transience

buffeted by stormy winds.

autumn

 

summer fades

in colors trodden brown

only a few bright colors remain

golden fritillary day

 

today is like no other

because it is

a golden fritillary day

rose red

 rose red, rose red

whom shall I wed?

rose red, rose red

from thorns I bled.

rose red, rose red

alone on my deathbed.

suspension

time hangs heavy on us

weighed down by hardships

and frustration

with efforts in suspension

buffeted by time.

survival

 

cling

to the stalk of life

even with half a wing