The Scorpion Chronicles
This is the latest scorpion to haunt my dreams. Because I know that some of you doubt that scorpions really exist in France, I got as near as I dared and made this portrait. And because scorpions don’t necessarily sit still to have their picture taken, you see him just as he exists in my dreams, a bit fuzzy, inchoate anxiety incarnate, horrifyingly larger than life, freshly knocked off the ceiling over the bed and awaiting death on the bedside rug. A death soon followed by a quick flushing down the tubes on his part, and a sleepless hour of ceiling-scanning on ours.
Sad to say, at the very moment the scorpion appeared, the bottle of lavender essence was wide open and wafting through the room. Ok, maybe it wasn’t wafting all the way up to the ceiling, but then, if that was too far to waft, what good was it? So now I have to report that although I wanted to believe, tried my best to make it true, loved the idea of lavender as the natural scourge of scorpions, this morning I called the exterminator.
True: exterminators use poison.
True: we put bees and spiders out doors as gently as possible.
True: scorpions are part of the ecosystem.
True: they were here before we were.
True: it’s either them or us.
Truer than true, it’s going to be us.
Sorry, Friends of Scorpions. Sorry, Friends of Lavender. Sorry, innocent scorpions who mean us no harm. We’ve got to be able to sleep at night, and I want to dream sweetly of lavender. Only lavender. Scorpion-free fields of lavender, just like everybody’s dream of the south of France.
One last, truly scary sorpion can be seen here.