|leaves cuticle behind . . .|
Within the span of a few minutes and the space of a few square yards hundreds or thousands of the insects, still wingless, dark-coloured and muddy, have been observed emerging from the ground and crawling away to find objects such as trunks or branches to which they anchor themselves by the feet.
The final molting or ecsydysis then ensues. The insect executes a series of abdominal contractions accompanied by twitchings and palpitations and by the secretion of a molting fluid that flows under the hard exo-skeleton. As an entomologist puts it, the whole body becomes a large secreting gland. In
a few minutes the exo-skeleton or cuticle splits at the center and top of the thorax and part of the moist white body bulges through the opening of the dark cuticle. Gradually the insect forces the rest of its body out and leaves the cuticle behind, dry and lifeless but still anchored to it's place on the
tree. The objects that are eventually to be insects wings are already discernable beneath the cuticle before the molting process begins where they appear as two small pads on the back at the top of the thorax. As the molting continues these pulpy little masses gradually unfold, once freed from the
constraining integument, and become engorged with fluid. The deployment of the wings is not complete until some time after the insect is completely detached from the cuticle. At this time it is still almost completely pallid in colouring with it's most conspicuous and anomalous feature being it's dark and
protruding eyes. The wings take on their final form amid further palpitations and twitchings. Some observers have seen drops of fluid remaining on the tips of it's wings after full deployment. At this point, when the insect is ready for the short span of it's adult life which it devotes to eros and eloquence. (RE) excerpt from Rory B. Egan's Cicada in Ancient Greece and a swerve worth taking. Phaedrus is here, amongst others familiar
I am woken by cicada silence. The door is slid open to let in the still- heavy - day. A cicada's pause is inter-rupted. It flies with a screech. A swift confusion of wings. Wanting. An insect bird, the most primitive of the primitive. Its awkward body lacks the necessary aerodynamics to fulfill the promise of monumental wings.
Each morning there is the fear. Of precisely what I do not know. But it's weight is familiar. Like a Chinese sitting ghost, its a(e)ffect prevents breathing. Only an act of will, a task to perform . . . today the task (foronecan only consideratask) is to record cicadas at their highest pitch
Today you saw a dead cicada. They just do that to trick you. Ants are hollowing the shell. Then you know. For a live cicada will not let a cat eat it. And certainly never an ant.
Dare to delve into the dark. Embrace the finality of one too many. Is it indulgent to assume you are not fullfilling the human task of living? I writes as a force of will.
Fury of intent . . . disturbed. Five a m. The loud deep calling begins . . . as pulse. Like a rotating sprinkler that gains momentum too fast to sustain. Finger and toe nails become strong. And white clean. You say, "If we stay together we will devour each other". This much I know you know.
This file could take awhile to download. (2mb) Perhaps read the Rory B.Egan connection and then come back, leaving this window open. The sound is a necessary impediment to reading the text. That is, something to move past