About a week ago, I disturbed an ant hill by moving an old tire they had built their home against. Blazing sunlight illuminated their enclave. They abandoned and scattered, in search of meaning. Relatively gigantic me? I took out my camera and snapped this photo. It ends up being a cross section of a fire ant hill...
Tonight the Missus and I walked downtown and had a beer while my parents babysat Eleanor. On the way home, we took a shortcut by crossing the train tracks and climbing between boxcars. Janelle found an old rusted iron washer of some kind. "A souvenir," she said, holding it up to the light. The trains creaked.
If a cross section of an ant hill could yield insight into the dilemma of being human and how to stop the pain of existence, yet still exist, I might be able to sell this photograph to an ad agency or synagogue or the senate or whomever. Instead, it's just an ant hill in the sun, and the crazy structure of it all reminds me of wattle and daub, Timbuktu, and Arabesque cookies...When we were both just children, my sister shoved me into an ant hill. The ants stung my legs and swarmed, in search of meaning.
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