The wasps. What crazy pronunciation. What a cluster of sibilants. One wasp flies into a bottle and traps itself. Its wings get damp and cannot come out. Five minutes later another flies into the same bottle and joins its struggling fellow. Maybe they are neither suicidal nor stupid, rather awfully romantic-- what can be a more byronic death than drowning oneself in an Africola sea?
We watch the wasps dance in wonder. Arch enemies in a duel-- made for each other, made to destroy each other, with one being destined to die in another's wings. Might also be lovers. Refuse to be separated from each other. Could not be born together, but at least will die together. This ultimate performance of buzz dance drains the final living power of the skinny striped torsos-- dueling, or the final consummation.
Consummation at last. Lovers or arch enemies, to every wasp a romantic ending.
Wasps in a bottle. A rare sunny Berliner afternoon in summer 2011.
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