And today we have killing of bugs.

To be accurate, they aren't scientifically bugs. They are scarcely anything; little gray collections of paranoia, small downy bits of arachnia.

Last night I went to bed too late. I had thrown away my contacts and when people finally left the house and I made it to the upstairs bathroom, I was not focusing on the ceiling and didn't have the vision to do so. I did see a tiny little spider in the sink, looking like an aphid or a fruit fly, and I drowned him with a little remorse but not much. For an evil eight-legged thing, he was cute. But standing in front of the mirror washing my face, I saw his brother descending from the vanity lights, and I began to be afraid. There was something above him that might have been another, and the usual maculations on the ceiling began to look ominously many. I considered standing on the counter to make sure, and possibly to squish them with a tissue, but my courage and my circadian rhythm both failed me. –I think I wanted them to. It was 1 am at least, and as I probably have noted elsewhere, spiders usually give me a raging case of the screaming heebi-jeebis, especially when plural. I ignored them hard, and left the bathroom.

I made it to bed. I made it awake, but late. The little dust-creatures –and creatures they definitely were, in the light of morning and fresh contact lenses- were mostly keeping to one ceiling corner in the bathroom, and some of them didn't seem well. It looked as though they might be stuck to the wall either with shower-fog or little webbing, but most of them didn't move. This was fine with me. A few were gingerly exploring the ceiling like translucent many-legged kittens, and I feared what a day of exploration might show them; places to hide and grow were the main thoughts I tried to ignore. Again I considered climbing on the counter and exercising some dominion (which the bathroom in general lacks from me) but I looked at the clock and ran towards the car instead.

I was very tired at work, and came home with the goal of fighting some of the entropy I've been allowing around me. But I remembered the baby colony, and soon after getting home I armed myself with tissue paper, screwed my courage to the sticking point, clambered onto the counter and began dabbing the ceiling.

Once got over, the task is not hard at all. Some corners of the ceiling are out of reach of the counter, at least from my knees, but I am making a pretty good job of it. It is mostly taken care of; it is reasonably taken care of. I go on with my evening.

Later trip to the bathroom for something; I hadn't really examined the other corner, there by the window. I stand carefully on the toilet (remembering how the seat before this one was broken in a similar adventure, if not by me), and dust the tiny things out of existence. At least I hope that's what I'm doing. They have so little substance, it's hard to tell if one's smished it. And when one falls, another one near it often falls off the ceiling on thread, too, as though they were climbers all roped together, even with some still in base camp. Each of them is equipped with their short threads (which in our case we have not got). They are small enough that when this sticks to me I am annoyed & not freaked out, and I don't fall or squirm. Another corner tidied.

There are some small little dust-dots in the original corner still, but they aren't moving, mostly, they aren't growing, quickly, and we've put in a few good licks. I have things to do, like take a nap and find out what movie my roommates are watching later. It turns out to be a good one. I've seen it before, but that's ok. It is long. I get ready for bed late.

I am thinking about facial soap, about the little spindly dust spots with legs, and about how to use Shakespeare allusions about them (these few, these tiny few?). I see a dust mote before my eyes. It is a few feet in front of my face. It is not floating, but dangling. He is not welcome! Really, to be hanging in a ladies' bathroom at this time of night! I absorb him with a tissue. His brother is hanging in front of the mirror. I am angry. They don't know who they're dealing with! Just for that, I rid the light fixture and ceiling of several more who looking suspiciously acrobatic. But it is late. They have been punished enough. I am going to bed.

Well actually I am going to write. I am still writing when my roommate comes home. I tell her I'm writing about the little spiders I found in our bathroom! I show them to her. She is practical, and climbs right up on the counter, first time, and goes to work, one corner and then the other. I feel sheepish. She says "I'm glad you told me about them, or else I wouldn't have gotten to stand on our counter!" –So maybe she isn't purely practical. (I knew that already; we get along.)

We hang around for another half hour since we hadn't talked in a little while, talking about life (what is it with bathrooms and kitchens?), occasionally admiring the light dusty puffs of arachnia which still adorn a couple places. She counts five of them. I can't see ceiling details without my contacts.

These are our baobabs. These are our little foxes in the vineyard. This isn't over.