The
nits were big, the nits were small. Mothers and babies. Mothers-to-be
with their unhatched eggs. They either crawled rather ponderously,
scurried in front or behind, or rested but remained alert.
A
strand of hair swayed in a breeze. Calm, a moment of stillness,
before teeth were raked through as if hair were wheat in a field, and
fingers, as deft as swifts, teased, undid further knots, plaited,
tied.
The
nits disturbed from their perches, uprooted and swept to a new area.
Dislodged. Resettled. Mothers and children separated. Eggs clinging
to home, abandoned.
The
eggs will still hatch. The children of nits do not need their
mothers. They are resilient to tremors and floods. Surviving,
against all odds. With human as host, human as transport.
Indiscriminately.
Their host's identity disregarded: boy, girl, adult male, adult
female, dog. Some prefer a shiny clean home, some just want a home,
any home, in which to propagate.
These
nits I speak of are not the species of nit you think I'm speaking of.
Although they are picked just the same: turned over, their legs
wiggling and examined, then destroyed. Between thumb and finger;
wiped on a square of tissue paper. Monkeys might, I imagine, pop them
in their mouth. Pop! Grin, chatter. And repeat.
Groom
and be groomed.
An
exercise that can be strangely satisfying, but which only fires the
blood; releases, in mortals, cortisol and not oxytocin. Tempers
flare, hair is yanked. Voices are raised above their usual level. The
atmosphere is hostile, crackles with electricity.
Jove,
however, does not appear, make his presence felt with a thunderbolt
or fork of lightning. No, the electricity comes from, and is mostly
contained within, the one with the nits, who at times may also be the
nitpicker.
Like
the egg and chick, with this type of nit nobody knows which comes
first. And with conflict, both within and without, sparks can then
fly like Vulcan's fire. So that if such a god exists you wonder what
it is he's making? And for whom?
Passion,
roused or raised, needs armour or chains. Vulcan, or if you prefer
Hephaestus, the Blacksmith God, is the master of melting, hammering
and beating metal to protect, to defend and bind.
Nits,
like these, though microscopic, have the power to make people rant
and rave, akin to the frenzy once seen in worshippers of Bacchus. So
the skills of Vulcan are desired. Of blacksmiths, however, there are
not many. The sounds of a forge rarely ring out.
Rage
does, in all its degrees. In towns and cities. Urban and countrified.
Suburban and pastoral; bordered by sand and sea. People afflicted
with nits talk to their TVs, to voices issued from speakers.
Pick,
pick, pick, like a hen chucking corn, at the commentary; gobbling and
gobbling and finding fault. The programme itself doesn't matter, the
narrative of it does. The narrative has flaws.
The
volume is increased to a shout or decreased to a whisper, dependent
on whether the nitpicker wants to answer back, with a lion's roar, or
soften the speaker's tongue. Mute only when they'd like to rip the
tongue right out, as Tereus did to prevent Philomela from telling,
and find they are denied this mutilation: the real execution and the
bloodiness of it.
The
narrator shapes words, the viewer blusters and babbles. The
opinion-giver makes audible sounds, the listener echoes these back,
in a sarcastic tone and then adds further opinions of their own.
The
curses grow in length and pitch; like a worm cut they wiggle. Alive,
divided; still alive, soon-to-be dead. Will they be heard? Not by
those they're aimed at; blows like these aren't intended to hit the
one being criticised. Rage, if mild or exercised in the right manner,
does not need a flesh-and-blood victim, or something to pour itself
into.
But
through. Walls have eager ears pressed against them.
Picture credit: Thisbe, 1909, John William Waterhouse (source: WikiArt).
This post was penned in 2019.
