Sunday, 07 August 2005 | Class Insecta

This weekend I went to a small town in upstate New York, to a place that has lots of things New York City lacks: a river you can swim in, big yards covered in grass that you could confidently lie down on, quaint country stores, $2 beers, $3 pancakes, two-lane steel bridges, constellations, and elaborate insects. (In New York, it seems to be all roaches and silverfish.)

There were lots of creatures in my motel bathroom that looked almost prehistoric, with hundreds of legs and pincers for heads. They mostly kept to themselves, and just walked back and forth (as if on a track), their tiny legs moving in order from top to bottom. It made me think of the keys of a piano, when you string your hand across them, starting at the lowest note and making your way up to the highest. I surprised myself by not being very bothered by them, besides when I cursed them for hiding just when I got my camera out.

Today, at the second cookout of the weekend, I took a few photos of insects that had drowned in our food, or had perched on the edge of plastic cups and soda cans. As the day progressed, friends began calling me over to take a photo of a bug disguised as a leaf, or of a frightening spider reclining on its web. "Lisa, c'mere. A bug! Bring your camera!" The fascination with rural insects seemed to be topped only by fascination with the price of beer, which instantly turned everybody into philanthropists.