About Life

The Heat Is On

A heavyweight bee flew through my open bedroom window, did a calculated surveillance flight, then hummed to my youngest son’s room to do the same. From there, it strategically made its way to my eldest son’s room. Investigation complete, it came full circle and hovered over my bed before buzzing off the way it came.

Suspicious, right?

This was no ordinary bee…

It was a drone disguised as a bee. A BeeDrone. We know it. You can’t fly through the slats of a venetian blind like that unless you’re designed to do so. Believe me, T.H.E.M. is waaaaaay to interested in how we cope with the heat. They want footage.

If that’s not disturbing enough, I was leaving the cabin via the door (the usual way) when a samurai locust I described in my previous post jumped me and attached itself to my naked upper arm. I responded quickly, brushing it off, hopefully before it injected me with one of those new cutting-edge chips the size of a sugar grain. BeeDrone and ImplantLoc are obviously (these are ally and ly times) working together.

I suspect they got to the cat before targeting us.

Kiki’s behavior is odd…

Uncateristic, you could say. She’s going undercover at night.

The first thing my youngest said to me this morning (when he’d fully opened one eye and partially opened the other) was: Kiki is coming into my room now.

Alarm bells rang, immediately.

Reeeeaaaaally, said I, at about what time?

Midnight, said my son.

And for how long does she stay? said I.

About an hour, said he and added tellingly, It’s like I’m her twelve to one secret love affair.

My son is often on his whole device, but half asleep, at that hour. Kiki’s gathering information, feeding T.H.E.M. intimate details of sites visited, chats, music streamed, popular movies and games. Her tendency to sleep all day now makes perfect sense: espionage and clandestine activities are taking a toll on her feline sensitivities. She has no clue she’s been recruited to do T.H.E.M.’s dirty work: they’ve modified her collar. The poor creature is purrally an unwitting accomplice.

Take her collar off, goddammit! you say. I hear you.

But it’s got her name and my phone number on it and, despite what’s going on, I cannot bear the thought of Kiki needing an intervention and her rescuer can’t call me because – duh – I took her collar off.

No, we just have to work ’round tedious inconveniences.

I’ll call the SWAT team if the snooping gets out of hand. The SWAT team will deploy a BUG unit. BeeDrone and ImplantLoc won’t know what hit them. This is not an idle threat (saying this in case T.H.E.M. track my blog).

One of the side effects…

of the monitoring we’re being subjected to is not too bad actually. We take partial credit for our favorite band exploding onto the world scene after years and years and years of prodigious creative output going largely unnoticed.

There is a downside. Lord Huron belonged to me. Now they’re a household name. They’re not my special secret I can share with my people. They belong to everybody. I keep reminding myself that ‘sharing is caring’. It’s not their fault, nor mine. It’s just the way it goes. I’m happy for them.

All Hail Lord Huron!

You can back me up. You know how long and faithfully I’ve listened to this band. I mean, Long Lost set me to imagining a location with such vivid clarity and repetition I ended up living there!

Like all artists I’m passionate about, it’s soooooo criminally, unbearably (remember, these are ally and ly times) hard to select tracks. Let’s see what I can do…

What did I find? Lo and behold, A Postcard from Lord Huron XIX! I’ve explored their content yet missed these short clips. Kindreds, this band and I (whispering, pining sigh).

Framed for murder?

Drops in the Lake offers pathos and a twangy guitar.

No skeletons in the closet, but one under a tree (I think)…

And finally, this one, Twenty Long Years, because it was creepily prophetic and swells my throat. Someone precious returned to me at 20 years of age after finding himself in just such a mad mess.

When life imitates art…

See you later, Alligator. I’ll return with another postcard (pomegranate is next).

Lots of sweaty love to you (I’m not being gross; it’s truly, cruelly hot here).

xxx ❤ PenMantis (Michele)

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