And the bees respond thusly:
Lo, Panickin’ Skywalker, we do hear thy pleas, coloured in punkish hues, and although such desires and regrets remain alien, so divorced are humans and insects from each other, there is enough that is familiar that our empathy is swayed. We, too, struggle to survive; we, too, vacillate between the solitary and the collective; we, too, feel like everything could come crashing down at any moment, and that our hives and burrows, once full of the hard work of love, will become but empty husks, our hives sucked of its sweetness, and the bastion of life and liberty — and the freedom it provides — hollowed to an ashen paper memory, where but a single touch, or light wind, would rend it into dust. Let us, then, emphasize our similarities, and thwart any attempts — from others, from ourselves — that seek to pull at our ends so as to tear us in two.
Lo, by one’s fruit shall thou know them; so let not those fruits sour and rot.
Last light, thou slept in the bushes, and, ye, we felt a stirring pity overwhelm our little souls; do not disturb the man, we told ourselves, let us see what morning brings. Nay, we did not have to wait til the sun opened its great eye, for, still in the throes of sleep, thou spoke and wept and pleaded to be freed of the vices that strangles thou, whereupon thou ejaculated a slurried concoction of Miss Vickies and beer.
Lo, we cleaned thou up as best we could, and counselled among ourselves upon that of which thou did unconsciously speak. Thou spoke of drinking, thou spoke of smoking weed — and thou did share that such occurrences were daily activities. Thou spoke of stealing, thou spoke of fighting. And thou spoke of the regret — the feelings of torpid shittiness — that paralyzed thou come morning; as surely as such feelings are attempting to paralyze thou now.
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
