Thirteen and Seventeen Years

I...there's that word again. Me. Mine. Everybody wants. Every body lives. Taxing outbursts. Attention. See. Hear. Every day, every second. And yet it takes some broods thirteen years and some broods seventeen years to appear in our trees around here. All to find mates and reproduce. Magicicada. Imagine a life like that.

No wonder my heart and lungs hurt. I molted too soon. I'm still supposed to be a nymph, living underground, spending my time with grubs and earthworms, not out here with all the counterproductive birds, bees and rodents.

I was sad all weekend without knowing why. Now I know. We are cicadas, our lifecycle broods out of sync, the males screaming to be heard, the females clicking with timed wing-flicks.

Some people live in and promote the world stage, expecting millions or billions to watch and respond in sync. I don't. I barely have time for watching myself, let alone others who attracted my attention when I wasn't paying myself enough. If we look at people's livelihoods and compare that to their behaviour, we'll see who's sincere and who has something to sell. I trust the opinion of Doris, the daughter of a sharecropper, who's working hard to raise her family and J.O., the honest gas station owner and war veteran who died last week and took an era with him, over politicians and entertainers any day. Freedom of speech and freedom of the press also mean responsibility to one's media power. The people around me who have to make a living are the ones who mean the most to me because they take the most responsibility for our society, their lives not protected by media interests.

Others want to put up barriers again over raw materials and finished goods. Human folly. Like kids in a boat maliciously poking holes in the side making it sink, taking the lives of all aboard down with them. Those of us with life preservers are still trying to patch the holes as quickly as we can, knowing it'll take all of us to survive in the long-term.

Enough with the distractions. The sun's out and the bluejays are calling. Time for a walk in the neighbourhood, the middle of real life, and think about how to cut headlines out of my Internet walks. I used to be interested in weaving characters into the near-future but I'm not getting paid enough to write stories about my species. If people can't be responsible for each other's health, let them eat cake with high fructose corn syrup icing!

After a couple of false stops, I lay down the pen of this blog and leave the weaving to other people more interested in seeing the fun in all of us. I'm having too much trouble finding humour in world events. We're all going to die no matter what. I want to die laughing on my feet, seeing an armadillo, raccoon and skunk race across the street, the local entertainment around here we call Roadkill Valley. Last one to the guardrail loses!