Buzz Blogging

It was 1:30 AM when I first heard the faint, ominous premonitions to what would turn into an all out war: a hush wisp of buzzing was slowly swimming my way. I had on my poker face and was conducting the important matter of blogging something serious, something that is especially fickle and comes in little puffs at 1:30 AM, something that is not to be disturbed. But alas, it arrived, first as a ghostly shadow, then as a blurry black blob, and finally as a fat, beady projectile set on wreaking havoc–the fly!

At first, I tried to ignore the buzzing and continue with my serious business. “You don’t touch me”, I thought to myself, “and I won’t mess with you”. As if sensing my thoughts, the malicious little fly began to hover over my head and take frequent nose-dives in front of my computer monitor as if it were bungee jumping. It repeated this feat with such devotion that one would think the dive was choreographed, or that the fly was trying to master an art or woo a female. The whole time, the buzzing sound followed the fly in loops: Loud buzz. Faint buzz. Loud buzz. Faint buzz. Loud buzz. Faint buzz. The fly was taunting me. Suddenly, my hand shot out and I swiped the air, but the fly had already skipped away.

I reached to my right and picked up the 2008 High School graduation program from earlier today and curled it into a bat: either the fly was going to be knocked out, or I was. With the resolve of a pissed off blogger, I swung, fanned, stabbed until, after a good 5 minutes, I sat down defeated. It was then the fly flew kamikaze at me and rammed itself between my eyes–I was ambushed! In the brief moment of contact, I felt the weight of the fly’s belly chafe against my skin, leaving a slight tingle that could only be the sensation of disgrace.

I stood up again and, with an odd sense of calmness, clasped my hand around the Graduation program. This time, instead of leading me on by dancing around before me, the fly decided to land on the table. The black of its outline was in sharp contrast with the white of the table, and as it sniffed around, licking its furry little fingers, it looked up to throw me a mischievous glance. What a contemptuous little sucker. Slowly, I began to spread out the program and bend closer and closer to the fly. Then, with one fell swoop, I slammed the program on the table and recoiled as if by reflex. There was a brief pause, and then I smacked the program a few extra times for good measure while the crisp noise echoed in the quiet room.

Silence.

Gradually, my fingers found the courage to tip-toe over to the suspect area and, ever so slowly, lift the program. I looked up and down and left and right, expecting a black mess of mashed oblivion. Nothing was there. The table was clean. Then, a buzz came from behind. The fly escaped! By this time, I really gave up–how does one deal with a Houdini fly? I sighed and went back to my blog.

The persistent buzz continued to trace my writing process as a phantom, looming over me as if spying on my blog entry. I ignored its presence and tried to stay focused on my material, but at one point, I couldn’t help but notice the fly slowly crawling up the table. It found some crumbs near a crevice and was inching greedily towards them. Without blinking, I surprised even myself with my own agility as I slipped a magazine over the hole and clamped down on all avenues of escape. This time, I could hear frantic buzzing inside–it was the last stand of a desperate warrior. I began to apply pressure, and the buzzing became more intense, crescendoing to a loud hum until the din became psychologically taxing. Many thoughts crossed my mind: Should I kill the fly? Am I a murderer? But wasn’t it annoying? Didn’t it distract you, insult you, and tick you off? Would I prefer fly paste over irksome noise? It was it my hands, It was in my hands…

And then my hands let go. I couldn’t do it. With a defeating flick, I flipped the magazine away and expected a black bullet to shoot out with double the buzz. But nothing came out. “Oh shoot”, I thought, “Did I unintentionally squish the fly when I was setting it free?” After a quick glance, my worries turned to relief and then to glee: there it was, the fly, on its back, kicking in the air like a newborn baby. I quickly pulled off the cap of the paint bottle I had nearby, capped the fly down, slipped a paper underneath, and took it outside. As I stood in the darkness, I took a breath of the cool air and opened a crack. The fly drifted out and merged into the night.

(Moral: At first, my situation appeared to be black and white: either I kill the fly or I die from annoyance. However, with some consideration for the other’s point of view, I took a step back and found a middle ground where both the fly and I were able to come to an unexpected, win-win situation.)