"Taming Mothra"
Female Black Witch Moth (Ascalapha odorata) on my wrist by Kealakekua Bay, Hawaii
Artist Cliche #1: Art Imitates Life.
Artist Cliche #2: Life Imitates Art.
All I know is that suddenly my life has been invaded by moths.
It sounds worse than it is really. They haven't started eating my clothing -yet.
I'd like to believe that I have some form of control over their intentions. But, the reality is that I am not Snow White (unlike the sunburned image of me above) and I am not the Pied Piper. For some reason they have recently reappeared since childhood en masse in various incarnations. And, whether it be in real life or in art they have made it clear that they come in peace. So far.
I'm uncertain of the precise year in which my mother and I were witness to the nocturnal landing of a huge female Luna moth under a spotlight on a tree at our summer home in the hills of West Virginia.
It was likely 1975-76.
I remember feeling displaced that summer because the familiarity of this home away from our New Jersey home was only a resting place for a few months before my parents would relocate us permanently to Florida. I was facing puberty and I would be experiencing it in a completely new environment, exiled from old friends and family. Metamorphosis was upon me. Like it -or not. I believe that this beauty's short life-span of 5-7 days had purpose and that I was meant to see her at her brief resting place.
And, she was spectacular.
Luna Moth (Actias luna)
(image courtesy of Google)
I've triumphed and survived a series of lifespans sine 1975-76.
Cats have 9 lives (in theory).
Moths have several days to a year (in science).
And, humans just get lucky (with a balance of diet and exercise complicated by
genetics, stupidity, and random acts of violence).
Fast forward to 2012 and my brief vacation to Hawaii's Big Island.
I've been gifted with friendship over the years by some extraordinary people.
We all serve as a resting place for each other. Some stay. Some move on. We all reflect.
It's okay.
The gorgeous home of a dear friend on Kealakekua Bay, HI,
is the epicenter of Island Fabulousness in all her glory.
It served as the resting place for my close friend and me for 6 days in late April before a period of transition between us.
It served as a resting place for a local friend to stop by and tell survival stories of being lost at sea with sharks in pursuit, naked, and only Power Bars and rainwater
(and eventually a golf course)
to see her through. Seriously...wait for her memoir.
But, for two nights in a row, it served as the hangar for a pair of Black Witch Moths
who chose me as their Snow White, their Pied Piper, their resting place.
I know now that they had purpose and that metamorphosis was upon us.
And, we are spectacular.
Male Black Witch Moth (Ascalapha odorata) on my wrist by Kealakekua Bay, Hawaii
"In Hawaii, Black Witch Moth mythology, though associated with death, has a happier note in that if a loved one has just died, the moth is an embodiment of the person's soul returning to say goodbye." -The Black Witch Moth: Its Natural & Cultural History
"Flutter"
Jason Levesque
My recent acquisition from
"Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life . . . Life holds the mirror up to Art, and either reproduces some strange type imagined by a painter or sculptor, or realises in fact what has been dreamed in fiction. . . . For what is Nature? Nature is no great mother who has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life. Things are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts that have influenced us. . . . At present, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects. There may have been fogs for centuries in London. I dare say there were. But no one saw them, and so we do not know anything about them. They did not exist till Art had invented them. Now, it must be admitted, fogs are carried to excess. They have become the mere mannerism of a clique, and the exaggerated realism of their method gives dull people bronchitis. Where the cultured catch an effect, the uncultured catch cold."
~Oscar Wilde, 'The Decay of Lying: An Observation', 1889
