diapause ovenbird The fly who’s found an entry point into the cozy confines of my home is an unexpectedly polite house guest. We only cross paths occasionally. I’ve encountered him lounging on my bedroom blinds, passing through the kitchen, alighting on my daughter’s leg, and resting on a windowsill. He makes himself scarce at night and has not kept me awake with his buzzing so I’ve made no concerted effort to evict him. I’m secretly hoping that he’ll bite me, turning me into a mutant with the power to suspend animation when conditions become untenable. When the temperature drops or food is scarce, some flies can enter a state of diapause in which their metabolism and development slow until they are as close to death as a living thing can be. The state can fluctuate rapidly, unlike hibernation. A fly in diapause will wake as soon as conditions improve, so that they may appear dormant one day and be buzzing around the next if the sun is shining and there’s enough warmth to wake them. This appeals to me as a hidden talent. Imagine if, when overwhelmed by the pressing demands of the holidays, I could simply cease all function and wake in January when the hullabaloo had passed and all the gifts were given and discarded and the meals were eaten and leftovers frozen and the house was quiet enough to rouse me from my sleep into a peaceful afternoon. Just imagine the joy in knowing that if the emotional climate turned frigid and my heart was starving I could tuck myself into a corner by the heat register and shut down the machines of thought until there was enough love and care gathered to pull me from the dream of permanent expiration. Alas, the fly has not bitten me. Or if he has, he has not passed on any radioactive DNA that might allow me to escape my hunger and the sting of cold that forms ice crystals around my heart. Yet, as I let my fingers form these words, he lands on the wall beside me. I think he understands the desire to cease all motion. And when I gaze into his faceted eyes he seems to say, “I would help you if I could.” But then he’s gone and the rain is coming down and there’s no end in sight and I’m wide awake with no recourse. I make muffins. I wash dishes. I brush the filth from my wings with the stiff bristles of my hind legs. I see one thousand versions of the world with my compound eyes and set to work stitching them together into something I can believe in. 251204 what's it to you? who go blather from