cicada hell

Seriously, cicadas are the worst insect. I have taken to waking up at ungodly hours, real satanic six o clock wake usp where everything has that blueish misery and disconcerting silence, because during the day the noise from cicadas is unbelievable. The noise from their constant sexual aggression, their incessant need for companionship is fine and all. I am not begrudging them their need for romance in this cruel world. But I really hate them. I hate them for their over large form, the way they leave behind full body casings lying around casually as if to say "I am a disgusting horrible insect and I leave my body around just to spite the world" - notice the way that cicadas do this, also snakes - related because both are really disliked all around the world, this unholy alliance of skin casings. I find it really bewildering, as if I went to sleep in my bed and woke up in a different country where everything was unclear and out of focus and everyone walked around in this hazy blur, that some people have no issue with cicadas. I have expressed my contempt to some people and they have gone to the extent of playing devils advocate for cicadas. But no one could genuinely love the cicada. They are the end of the world, screaming while Rome burns. They lie outside the window of my room, they rest on the trees in my garden. They will die soon, as all insects do. It is my consolation every morning.

I tried to find a beautiful painting of the cicada, but they do not exist. This is the closest you can get, as you can see it is not really about cicadas. Even though it is called "the cicada"  it is about the violation of late summer and the deep malaise within contemporary life. Look at her face, the abject misery. Not even wearing a pretty red dress makes this a happy time, her face has a yellowish hue - don't really know what this means, but it is "loaded" with meaning. The unrelentingly bleak background, as if Corot was implying the deep horror of cicadas, suggests so much. Apparently this painting wasn't a big deal at the time as Corot was a landscape man and no one wanted to understand why he started doing character studies. And the Salon was a much bigger deal then than it is now, so I guess Corot was hurting that no-one understood what he was suggesting in this painting and his other character works. How the silvery and atmospheric landscape is "perhaps" a comment on his own diminishing returns from landscapes, how elusive life can be.  But it is the ambiguity of this painting, it doesn't really give much away except some overwhelming melancholy that is so evocative. Or maybe not. It really doesn't have much to do with cicadas as I suggested. They are the bane of modern life.