I am nature. And I think. There’s no need to solve that problem. For a long time I’d imagined we should. No way. You are nature and you think. She was sleeping next to me and her mouth was open. The spider walked across the ceiling above us. “Don’t do it,”I said. Ordinarily I don’t flinch. But I’ve a spider bite and it’s infected and this gal above us appeared as on a hunt. It was directly over my wife’s mouth. The spider dropped and landed on her shoulder. It paused, waiting. I snatched a sheet of paper and encouraged it. It ran along the paper and then jumped to the bed. I chased it around the room. I was protecting my girl and I possessed a bite. This gal was wily. “You look guilty,” I said, and I crushed it. One out of two hundred spiders and I consider myself merciful. I’m not interested in what they say in Thailand or Tibet. I am nature; I exhibit mercy and the cold-blooded. A mosquito flew by; I allowed it to pass. She did, flying. I continued to read next to my warm, innocent friend in her pink pajamas. A funny-bodied insect flew and landed, paused, wiggled, and then breezed off; I was calm and all-seeing. Another or the same bloodsucker hovered in my peripheral; I was engaged with bananas in Guatemala; my airspace was violated. I snatched with my left hand, grabbed the mosquito out of the air, in one move slammed it to my sheets on the bed, set the book down and flicked my first finger; it catapulted to the closet. I am nature and I am.
