The majority of my early childhood fixations; classifying dinosaurs, Norse mythology, abacuses and multiplication tables, travelled in from the darkness only to be spirited away again as abruptly, leaving only the faintest trace. I remember an old “LIFE” natural almanac which amply documented through photographs and short, terse analysis, the dark habits of insects below the earth’s surface. I remember little about this book except for the strange feeling of having dirt all over one’s palms after reading it and one image near its middle which was very dear to me.

If memory serves it presented a rather haughty looking queen ant rubbing her hands greedily together before swelling, translucent pupae. In the rose-colored light given off by the package one could discern her hundreds of powder yellow children rummaging about impatiently. I cannot nor do I desire to explain why, but I found the image powerfully erotic. I would sit with an affectedly pensive air in the back of my parents’ brown Westvalia van and slowly turn the pages of the otherwise tedious book, being careful not to reveal my true intention in reading it. The spiders would idly pass by, then, a dim amusement at the exploits of the dung beetle, then the climactic image and a resultant sensation of almost suffocating with fascination and guilt. Then, feeling unceasingly watched, I would reluctantly traverse the melancholy incline down towards the index, close the book, and begin anew.

I am in a comedy of manners, wearing a kabuki mask. My mechanical gestures upset the languid tea-pot and the strange tilting of my head makes all gossip elliptical…