A wasp stung me.

Cooking dinner, I lifted the dish towel looped on the refrigerator door. The wasp hadn’t anticipated disturbance, so reacted angrily. Luckily, I wasn’t handling any steaming or sloppy dishes. I don’t remember what I said but it wasn’t polite. Urgency is inclined to brevity – yelps, roars, shrieks, and other illiterate expostulations. Polysyllables mandate a degree of tranquility.

I dashed the dastard to the tiles, mashing it with my shoe. Saint Francis wouldn’t have approved. I get it about the circle of life and sanctity of creatures, but God damn it!  Shakespeare sped to the scene of the accident with his usual alacrity: “There was never yet philosopher/ That could endure the toothache patiently.” I sometimes think you could just read Shakespeare again and again, to hell with all those other scribblers. While this would free up bookshelf space and impoverish Jeff Bezos by a penny, both worthwhile results, it might limit one’s society by fostering a reputation as an oddball. Who wants to hang out with somebody who quotes Shakespeare all the time? We read for elucidation, enlightenment, entertainment, granted, but also to jaw about it. If I cited bestsellers and pop songs instead of Dr. Johnson and Spinoza, maybe I’d be more in demand.

The wasp was dead but not its memory. Over the next two days, the sting gathered gusto like a salacious rumor. The itch expanded from a single spot to the length of my ulna and radius. (73 years on earth and this is my first mention of those body parts.) I woke up scratching and imprecating. I Googled anaphylactic shock, to be on the safe side. The sting site was pink and hot to the touch. I applied an icepack from the freezer, downed two Advil and discovered to my disgruntlement no antihistamine handy. Why, you might inquire, is my bathroom cabinet crammed with vials and tubes but never the medication I seek? This is among the wonders of the world.

Awake at this unwelcome hour, I might as well write, but about what? I had a couple of high-minded notions – something about poems, something else about politeness – but concentration was routed by this exasperating itch. When would it subside? It had been two days now and the wasp was still protesting its extinction. What was it doing indoors in the first place – in the dish towel! Then commenced that all too human whimper, “Why me?” – and in no time I could hear myself pouting like a Trump voter. (Might there be a conspiracy afoot?! Cleopatra was done in by an asp. Asp is only a w away from wasp!)

My list of conceivable missive topics shrank to my right forearm. I could think about nothing else. I couldn’t even read. But what worth your precious time could be said about a wasp sting? Henry yawned, of the same opinion.

For me, it’s axiomatic, the interest of the world is up to us. As my mother used to say, “Only bores are bored.” Any subject can be revelatory if you drive your intellect past the verge of your awareness. Jonathan Swift wrote “A Meditation Upon a Broomstick,” for heaven’s sake, in 1701. Aren’t wasps as interesting as broomsticks? Why would a serious writer like Swift address such a trivial subject? He was parodying a popular religious tract by Robert Boyle, who is also known as the father of chemistry (as in “Boyle’s law”). Boyle detected God’s involvement in the humblest aspects of daily life. He also wrote Some Physico-Theological Considerations about the Possibility of the Resurrection, which I think I’ll skip.