Considering the Beetle Conundrum.

Over the past few days I’ve been surprised by the number of beetles I’m seeing crossing the road in front of me. It’s always been normal to see the occasional one – I’ve referenced it a few times on the blog – but recently there have been very many more than usual. Everywhere I walk I see single beetles scurrying across the tarmac, and so I’ve naturally taken to wondering why that should be.

My first thought was to wonder whether there’s some sort of event happening in the beetle world – you know, something like the Glastonbury Festival or the football World Cup. That seemed silly, so then I took to wondering whether it’s the good old universe sending me a message again. That might or might not be even sillier depending on your attitude to such matters, but I Googled the seeing of black beetles in folklore anyway just because I had nothing better to do.

By and large the news was good. The seeing of black beetles is significant in several ways, apparently, mostly along the lines of signifying spiritual rebirth, resilience in troubling situations (and oh my giddy aunt, do I need some of that), and embracing change as a factor for good. But then the website from which I gleaned this encouraging information had a large panel entitled:

Five Facts About: The Spiritual Meaning of Black Beetles, followed by bullet points outlining five facts about the spiritual meaning of bees. Makes you wonder why we bothered to invent the internet, doesn’t it?

Considering Beetle Mind.

It’s an interesting fact that wherever I’ve been walking over the past week or two, be it around the precincts of my little abode or perambulating the byways of the Shire, I keep seeing small beetles – presumably baby ones – scurrying frantically across the hard surfaces of lanes and paths. And so I ask the question: why do they do it?

Is there something they want on the other side, because if so it would suggest that beetles are capable of aspiration and therefore conscious intent? Or is it simply that beetles are genetically programmed to walk rapidly in a straight line whenever the day is dry and the temperature convivial (they don’t seem to do it in cold or wet weather)?

So therein lies another oddness in the matter of JJ’s perception of life, the universe, and everything. While others question the wisdom of a change in interest rates, the rightness of allowing unemployed foreigners to enter the country without a valid ticket, or the soundness of the judges' decision in determining who should be crowned victor in some TV reality show or other, I concern myself with wondering why baby beetles cross the road.

Next Life Choices.

The first sign of an upwardly mobile season was evidenced tonight by the first beetle wandering aimlessly around my office floor. It looked lost. Beetles always look lost, and it occurred to me that when I’m floating patiently around that nether region known to the Buddhists as The Between, and the disembodied voice asks me what I would like to be  in my next life, I might answer ‘a beetle.’

‘But beetles are always lost,’ will intone the disembodied voice.

‘So what,’ I will answer ruefully, ‘I felt lost for the whole of my last life as a human. Nothing new there.’

‘If you’re a beetle you might get eaten by a bird or something.’

‘If I’m a human I might get eaten by a lion or something.’

‘True, but beetles spend most of their time in dark, damp places.’

‘Most of them do, but I’ll be a smart one. I’ll find myself a nice little niche under the floorboards in some rich person’s house which has proper central heating where I can stay all winter and be comfortable. I never had that privilege as a human.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’

‘You poor thing. OK, you can be a beetle if that’s what you want. But I thought you had your eye on being a deep space astronaut.’

‘Mmm… I did, didn’t I? Do they have beetles on spaceships?’

‘Doubt it.’

‘Oh, right. Leave it with me and I’ll come back to you.’

It occurs to me that it would be a good idea to come back as an apex predator like a salt water crocodile, but I don’t think I could face being that ugly.

(I just heard a disembodied voice coming from somewhere beyond the veil. It said: ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’)

Appreciating Beetles.

I opened the door to go into my kitchen last night and saw a beetle wandering around the tiled floor. Beetles do that, you know. If you stand still they wander in a seemingly aimless manner as though they can’t make up their minds where they want to get to. You have to make it up for them, as I did when I guided it carefully to the space under the washing machine.

When I got up this morning, what appeared to be the same beetle was standing still as a statue on the carpet runner in front of the sink unit. They do that, too. If you move about they stand still, seemingly in the instinctive belief that they’re less likely to get trodden on. But I wanted to walk up and down the runner myself – you know, to fetch the milk from the fridge and a bowl of breakfast cereal and so on – and it seemed likely that the poor little chap was rather less safe than it thought it was. And so I nudged it and it ran straight back under the washing machine. Did you know that beetles can learn from experience? Me neither.

The thing is, I get very few visitors to my house, what with being a recluse and feeling reluctant to catch the wretched Covid thing, so it’s nice to have a beetle for company occasionally. They’re so much less irritating than people.

Today's Meagre Miscellany.

The glums have set in again. It’s been a messy sort of weekend over here in Blighty – lots of rain and strong, cool winds, with splashes of occasional sunshine to lift the mood temporarily before the glowering ’gins again. And I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that I gave up probably the only chance I’ll ever have to meet that very special person I mentioned in earlier posts. I’ve also upset an Australian woman (another Australian woman…) with a glowing tribute I left on one of her YouTube videos. Seems I didn’t compliment the right element sufficiently and now she says she’s failed.

*  *  *

I came in from the garden earlier to find a Devil’s Coach Horse beetle on my kitchen floor, raising its abdomen at me in typically threatening manner. It’s what they do, apparently, having been born with the delusion that they’re not beetles at all, but scorpions.

 

Not being the sort to be intimidated by a beetle, I gently encouraged it to leave the premises and take shelter in a damp, dark place. I gather beetles like damp, dark places in which to pass the daylight hours. And then I read up on them via Wiki and learned that in Mediaeval Britain there was a superstition that to crush a Devil’s Coach Horse gave absolution from seven sins. I was rather pleased that I’d preserved the life of the creature and kept the sins, especially since a mere seven would make little impression on my spiritual passport anyway.

*  *  *

So then I idled away an hour sifting through my pictures file on the computer, and came across three which seemed to tell the story of my life from boyhood to now rather succinctly. These are they:

Little Critter Matters.

I went through to the kitchen from my office and saw a little beetle crawling across the floor towards me. I often see a little beetle crawling across the kitchen floor and it causes me some consternation.

‘Oh come on, little beetle,’ I said. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t crawl around the floor when I’m up and about. I might accidentally tread on you, then you’d be dead and I’d be mortified.’

(I thought the juxtaposition of ‘dead’ and ‘mortified’ quite clever in the circumstances, but the beetle just looked confused.)

*  *  *

Twilights aren’t the same now that summer has run its course. No moths, you see, just snails. I’m becoming uncommonly fond of snails, but whereas moths suggest Titania and her entourage, snails merely remind me of The Magic Roundabout.

Just Waiting for the Nightcap.

I found an unfamiliar beetle on my bedroom carpet earlier. Being curious, I put it on a piece of white paper and brought it down for identification aided by Google’s Images of Beetles.

(I’m uneasy about doing that sort of thing. It occurs to me that I have no right to interfere with the life path of an innocent creature which hasn’t done me any harm. It wasn’t even in the way, for heaven’s sake. But curious I am, so I permitted myself to err mightily – and felt guilty in consequence. I seem to be feeling guilty a lot lately.)

Anyway, according to Google’s Images of Beetles, it was a species with the imposing title Brown Beetle. Oh well, so much for tonight’s excursion into the exotic. I took it to the further end of the room and left it on the piece of paper to continue its inoffensive existence without further assault from some damn human.

It sat there, unmoving, for an hour. A whole hour. Beetles must do a good line in patience. I went to the kitchen to fetch a small scotch, and when I came back it had gone. Good. I feel better already.

Being About Bugs.

I just went into my kitchen to make a cup of tea, and saw a beetle scurrying away as fast as its little legs would carry it. It eventually took refuge in the dark place under the fridge. I like beetles. They’re inoffensive little creatures which just want to be about their business and keep out of your way.

The first year I lived in this house we had a hot summer and there were lots of bugs about. Late one sultry night I was sitting at my computer, frequently wiping the sweat from the side of my hand because it was making the desk wet, when I spotted a beetle – one of those handsome bronze ones that are a bit bigger than the commoner black ones – walking lazily across the rug. I imagined it was humming (or maybe whistling) an ancient beetle tune that had been passed down from generation to generation of handsome bronze beetles.

Now, call me odd if you like – I had imbibed rather a lot of barley juice if my memory serves me right – but I was suddenly possessed of the urge to get down on my hands and knees and stroke it. I tried, and it ran away as fast as its little legs would carry it. See what I mean?