Mothaggedon

The end has definitely begun. .

One of the artists at the studios laid a beautiful rug in his space. A wool kilim, it’s very lovely, or it was, once, sometime ago now. Unbeknown to all it must have arrived with a multitude of moth eggs. The artist went away for the summer. The artist to whom he lent his space had no idea regarding the dangers of moths, choosing to ignore the situation.

Speechless.

In theory at the studios we shouldn’t access someone else’s space without permission but I’ve talked to the managers and the conclusion is that the moths have given us permission. It has been left to us to battle with what has developed into an infestation. A mixture of clothes and carpet moths. For your info, the carpet ones are darker and juicier, excuse me while I wretch. These unwanted guests have eaten swathes of the lovely rug leaving massive holes. When I say massive I do mean very large. Those of you who’ve had the misfortune of moth visitations in your woollens drawer may be visualising a couple of centimetres. No, try thinking in inches, three by five, six by two, one eaten area, still slightly sticky with now dead eggs, is about twelve inches by fifteen. I’ve no idea if the owner of the rug has a clear idea of what awaits him on his return.

It is disgusting. Em and I deal with the moths together, their mass of squirming fluttering crawling bodies makes us squeal and I itch uncontrollably. F, battles them alone after they tried to infiltrate his area. They had colonised Ems winter studio coat, they had moved into a black wool shirt dress hanging in my room. Marmalade’s wool stash lured a few.

Both Marmalade and Em work almost exclusively in wool. Marmalade weaving, Em making art in the form of political comment via the medium of hand made rugs.

A visitor recently suggested cedar oil.

Oh my, we are way past that.

Moth genocide, mothocide, that’s where we’re at.

I googled to see if moths are actually any use. They will be at the end of the humanity, clearing up organic matter, that’s their job. For now, those near me can leave my organic matter alone, or face the consequences.

I have declared war.

Picture me dressed Rambo style. Better still, given my heritage I could be wearing a Brunhilda style headdress and a beaded chest plate, while carrying a Viking axe and an African spear. Yes, imagine that outfit and visualise me moth bombing, spaying chemicals and deploying pheromone strips. Dont forget to add to this image my back up crew of the dangerous rug artist Em and F, hard as nails producer of comic book horror Queer Art and of course the badass Marmalade.

We are formidable.

All guns blazing. The Wild West.

Imagine the last episode of Godless, I’m Roy Goode, Em the sherif, F, the guy in the long John’s, Marmalade is the gun slinging Marta, BelVita is one of the ladies in the hotel shooting with her eyes closed. After arriving dramatically on horse back, I’m throwing my empty riffle at a moth to better shoot it with my hand gun.

Ok I’m getting carried away, but you get the gist.

I mean business.