SPACE BEES

SCENE III

. . .the moon looks like a white rabbit. In a small appartment, Sybelle and Hubert are having a conversation as they prepare to have a late evening meal of pastas. They’ve already started the wine. . .

-There is a lot of shit I want to write about, says Sybelle.
-Well, says Hubert, just write it. Write your shit. By the way, I am cooking.
-Okay, says Sybelle. Something is slowing me down. Style, for instance. I don’t have any style. I don’t know the rules of proper writing. I don’t know that many words, and sometimes the words I know, I don’t know them so well. And I discovered that I cannot learn any more words.
-What do you mean, you cannot learn any more words? asks Hubert.
-My mind has gotten slow. For some things, some processes, it’s gotten slow, says Sybelle.
-Your chess has improved. You play a much better game.
-Yes, that’s right. I don’t understand why.
-You don’t need to understand why.
-Wrong, mister. I need to understand why I play better chess now than I used to.
-Okay, says Hubert. So, we know it’s not because of you reading chess books, because you haven’t.
-I didn’t have the time, says Sybelle.
-Whatever, says Hubert. So part of your brain is working better, and other parts, well, not better. I’ll teach you a new word every day. What about a word in a foreign language? A word in Armenian, for instance. Here. Learn the word: djur.
-What does it mean?
-Water. Water is djur.
-Nice. But I need to learn more words in English.
-Okay. Hold on. Let me get a dictionary.

He gets a dictionary. Opening it at random, he points his finger at one word. . .

-Fuck! exclaims Hubert. Of all words, I had to pick that one.
-Really? asks Sybelle. That’s the word you’ve picked at random? Fuck?
-Yes. Look!

He shows her the word.

-You could have picked fuchsia, says Sybelle. I mean, I know that word, fuchsia, but it’s the kind of word you forget unless there is that bush growing in your backyard.
-Don’t say bush, says Hubert. It’s worst than fuck.
-Oh! don’t be so silly. Have you heard about the bees?

They prepare to eat. There is a second bottle of italian wine on the way. . .

-We should sell bee colonies, says Hubert. There are plenty of them in Armenia, and twenty-five percent of all bees have mysteriously vanished in the US, this year. The beekeepers couldn’t even find their little dead bodies anywhere. I mean, that’s if they died. Maybe they all went to another planet? Space bees: They travel across the universe. . .
-The Space bees, yes! Yes! exclaims Sybelle.

They build their nest in the center of the galaxy. They fly from planet to planet, collecting pollen, making Space Honey, for the Space gods who drink Space Bee Hydromel.

-That’s good, you should write it. Oh, and hydromel is called mead, in English.
-Well, see, there is a new word for me. But I wouldn’t know where to put the capital letters. One on space? One on bees? How do you capitalize space gods?
-Well it depends on what you are talking about, says Hubert.
-Exactly, says Sybelle. What are we talking about? Space bees?
-Vanishing bees, says Hubert.

They are done with the meal. They move to the living room. . .

-Have you ever thought about this? asks Sybelle. Our sign for number one. It looks like it’s fucking with the sign for zero. A dick and a. . .
-Stop it! says Hubert. That’s my field, symbolism. Anyway, don’t talk about it. Write it!

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Galactic beehive by reading_is_dangerous]

These days, I read The Power of Myth, the conversations of Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers. For only $10-15, it is an amazing book. I am also a big fan of Pr. Campbell's serie, The Masks Of God, but that's in four volumes.

If there were a good bookstore around, or if Amazon delivered to Armenia where I live, I would get Memories, dreams, reflections by C.G. Jung. I would make silly drawings in the four corners of each page, then give that book to you.