Evolution
August 24th, 2009by Matthew Gavin Frank
BAROLO, ITALY-
At the end of Via Crosia, at least a kilometer past the Macelleria, but before the vineyards, the street’s rose cobblestone is cracked with anthills. Surely these bugs are, right now even, communing under the town, perhaps under a single block, waiting to bore holes through the bathtubs of Barolo. In one of these homes (we can only hope), someone will be washing for work—an Elena or Francesco, Valentina or Beppe—dreading the sight of silver tray, meat case, trade show badge, and tractor. By the time the ants reach the white-green tile, this person, whoever they are, will recall their breakfast if only with their throat: the buckwheat flour, egg, and water gelling inside them to spawn something entirely new.
At least a kilometer away—maybe even more—the temperature drops one degree over the grapevines and the wind brushes them into hair. The last of the colony, having just dined on a white truffle crumb, folds full and thorax-first into the anthill. Signaled from the front of the line, the last ant knows that at least a kilometer away, someone is afraid to bathe, can’t afford to fix the hole in their tile. This person, whoever they are, can not wash away breakfast’s hold, lest the ants, with the water, rise from the drain like palm fronds, slow in destroying the foundation, but surely building something—the spindle-laddered metaphysica of the flightless insect, perhaps. Yes: they rise, craving the mask of spiders, a banana tree sprouting in fast forward to bite cacti-like at the soft dough ends of Italian toes.
Breakfast will reassert itself with the fundamentals. Everything must evolve: the eggs, the hens that laid them, the naked stomach snapping back on its food, and fear. That too.
Tags: ants, Barolo, bathtubs, breakfast, butcher shops, Eggs, evolution, insects, Italy, truffles, vineyards
Matthew Gavin,
You know that I love you, but I seriously don’t want to read about ants, even in your beautiful prose. We are fighting an ongoing and certainly fruitless campaign against the ants invading our house. I hate ants.
Yeah. They’re not my favorite indoor pets either, but I can’t help sense some kind of evil nobility about them. I love watching them– outside, of course.
I’ve always had a soft spot for ants… I couldn’t possibly say why. They seem admirable, in their own tiny way.
Nice write, Matt. I’m enjoying starting the day on this one.
Thanks, Simon. Given that you’re starting your day, it stands to mention that carpenter ants are good in coffee.
I can say from experience that they’re not great in milkshakes. There’s an important note for an Australian summer - always, always check the chocolate syrup first.
I really can’t stress this enough.
I’m writing that rule down.
If only my twenty-three year old self had known it, everything would be different. If only he had not made that dark realisation while looking at the bottom of the milkshake glass, satisfied and sated, unaware of the looming horror that was a millisecond away.
I’m going to have to disagree with Irene. (A first!)
You make ant talk beautiful and compelling.
Thanks, Marni. The little suckers have a lot to say.
I’ve got a phobia, okay?
Give me a break.
I said his writing was beautiful.