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Friday, May 11, 2012

Bambit Ramblings

[Was this a dream? I can't be sure, nevertheless I typed these notes in my journal after listening to a Nature segment on WNET.  The year was about 1986.

But today, in 2012, I simply cannot find a single mention of the 'Brown Bambit' anywhere! How could a species have simply 'disappeared'? Was this a publicity designed to encourage the masses to buy more TV sets? Who knows. I lay this in the drawer of Forever Mysterious, prose on the edge of dreaming, letters set in a line of words a page of lines, that don't spell truth, or fact, or anything real at all.]


The Brown Bambit (not bandit), lives (or lived) inside your TV set where it survives (ed) by feeding off the insulation around the wires. A cockroach that ate plastic!

[Thus it was reported in the 1980's. Does the Bambit now live inside my computer?]

Japanese made TV's, which might have lasted indefinitely, otherwise wore out, thus accelerating our balance of payments deficit.

A member of the cockroach family, the Bambit antedates the dinosaurs.

Man believes he can adapt to almost anything, but the Brown Bambit has not had to adapt!

It has the tools for survival in any age.

This is our tragedy. Homo sapiens in reality is the least adaptable. Our ecological insurrection has yielded a few pyrrhic triumphs which we may pleasure in, but alas, we're bred for one thing, getting the carbon out of the earth.

We're slaves of the plants, recycling fixed carbon, burning oil, gas gas, quarrying limestone, exposed to acid rain. Even mining and agriculture puts CO2 and methane in the air.

All good for plants trees and forests. Riparian forests temper the winds somewhat.

Me-thinks a bog of dry-ki and standing water grasses will make a nice home.

A phreatophytic water-place becomes a phantasmagoric wonder-clade.


I dreamt of a piece of golden topaz, precious, but terrifying.

The crystal spoke, and told me the following story:

I am living in the Duke's house, where the Duchess and I fornicate almost every day. For me this is very difficult to live with. I drink his juice in the morning, sit at his table at night, sleep under his roof. Often, just before I doze off, the Duchess comes running upstairs in her nightgown. She pulls it up and straddles me in bed, and encourages me to go ahead. The Duke must be in the shower. The situation is becoming desperate. One morning I find him listening attentively to my complaints about money. The next day amongst my things I find a package of new one hundred dollar bills. There are more than a thousand of them. There is no note, but the message is clear. Let me have my wife back. There is something tragic about this. I sense his love, but also his dependence on her. How had he raised this sum? Recently all his businesses were foreclosed by the banks. The sight of all this cash fills me with guilt. It stains the bliss and the delicate fantasy that Duchess and I have created.

I wake up, convulsing.


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