The Mentality of the Culicidae

It's 3am, and I'm awake. Again.

I used to be the type of person who would lie awake at night thinking about things. I have this goal of "understanding", so puzzling things out is a natural instinct. And hey, I used to have things to think about. The MUD, for instance. Why on earth did this player say that? Was that what he thought of me? Why would he think that, did they really think I was so selfish? How could I make them all see the person I really was? Et cetera. Or when I had a crush on a boy when I was fourteen, now, that really gave me something to think about. But that was long ago, and it's not why I'm awake tonight.

No, tonight there's a mosquito in my bedroom. Again.

Now, I like to think of myself as a nature-lover. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of visiting the Botanical Gardens with my family, being taught about the different trees and flowers, feeding the ducks. When I was lonely in primary school, there was a patch of buttercups far across the field from where everyone played, and I would retreat there when the age difference got too intrusive for me, and keep the bees company. And I like cute and cuddly animals as much as the next girl.

Actually, I've probably quite a bit more tolerance for the wildlife than your average person; too much David Attenborough as a teenager, I suppose. (No, you can never watch too much David Attenborough.) So, in accordance with his enthusiastic attitude, I find it all interesting, curious and worth preserving (although I haven't gone vegetarian). This means that I don't mind large spiders, because the big ones we get here are harmless; in a safe environment, I wouldn''t mind handling a snake. To me, ants' nests are a marvel of nature, as you can see in this video, although obviously they're best left alone. I like earthworms, in theory, although I've never bothered digging them up to go look at them. By a weird extension, I like colorectal surgery. (Seeing the patient's innards spread out on view... Pink and wriggly? Happy guts. Ooh, that bit looks sick, poor thing. Let's cut it out. The rest of them still happy? Happy guts.)

But well, mosquitoes are the lone exception. They spread malaria, causing a worldwide disease burden. Not to mention myriad other diseases. They don't support any ecosystem, as far as I know, because they're a pest feeding on humans and animals. They seek me and my mother and sister out preferentially, and we get huge welts that last for days and sting at night. I don't believe in "evil" in the malignant, people-hating sense, but ... mosquitoes are the enemy and must die.

Which brings us to The Hunt.

The door is closed. The lights are on. All wooden surfaces get checked. Then Smith gets covered in blankets up to his face, and my arms and head are free to act as bait ... and to smack them out of the air. I used to be reasonably good at it. When I was on rotation on the North Coast, in a house with broken fly-screens, I'd sit for an hour before bed and get about six or seven of them each night. Then I could sleep knowing that with the door shut, no more would come in.

These days, though ... I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm older and slower. Maybe I'm tired more often. Maybe the mosquitoes are faster, where we live now. But many hours over many nights have been fruitless, and I usually end up just putting a blindfold on and going to sleep with the lights on. I don't think I've caught a mosquito this year, and there have been plenty.

So I've had plenty of time to think about the intelligence of the mosquito. Obviously it's not on a par with the human mind. I must be some kind of animist, because I usually like to think of things as having a personality - trees, germs, guts (as above), supermarket trolleys, you name it. But well, I don't even like to dignify a mosquito by giving it its proper gender (only the female ones bite). No, this is not your average gravid female looking for nourishment for her eggs, and this is not a bitch-slap fest. It is an IT. Kill it.

There used to be a catchy television advertisement for insect spray, that featured an anthropomorphic, singing housefly. I'm Louie the fly, Louie the fly, straight from rubbish tip to you! Spreading disease, with the greatest of ease ... But when you're in a room with a mosquito ... well, it's not exactly a planning genius.

"Right, we go around the bedpost here and between the slats, and they'll be straight ahead. Ignore the golden-haired one, the Asian one has a better blood group, taste that carbon dioxide on her breath ... So we're going to zoom over the face, we don't want her to wake up, focus on the hands, arms, anything but the head, you got me? And do not, I repeat, DO NOT land on the hair - it's a trap. They're not called hair triggers for nothing. Okay, you ready?"

No, I like to think of a mosquito more as a machine. In its nervous system and what counts for a brain, it has, what, ten thousand neurones? A hundred thousand? I don't really have a clue, although I bet it's not in the billions. And there are probably only a few basic impulses - eat, mate, hide. Each one would have excitatory and inhibitory factors, and you can kind of predict what they are.

Anyone who's done neuroscience probably knows what I mean by that, but here's an analogy. Mating aside, let's say that 'hide' and 'feed' are at opposite ends of a dial. What the mosquito does depends on where the dial is at a particular time, and that depends on the environment. The time of day is one factor pushing the dial towards one end or another - feeding at dawn or dusk, and hiding the rest of the day. The presence of food pushes it towards feeding - I've just looked it up, and apparently carbon dioxide and oct-1-en-3-ol in breath and sweat are strong attractants. I used to watch them come up to me, mesmerised, tracking along the trail of my breath - conveniently, right in front of my face so I could smack them between my hands.

Obviously being swatted at is a fast swing towards the "life-preservation" end of the dial, but also, the presence of a good place to hide will attract it. I've learned that mosquitoes like to hide on dark wood-grain surfaces, and I used to be able to go hunt them down on my bedroom door or the bookshelf. (Now my bed is wooden and there's an underneath for them to hide. Grr.) And, to my despair, having the light on (so I can see it!) seems to be a strong push towards the 'go hide' end. Maybe having a 35 watt fluorescent for sewing and reading as the top light (100W incandescent equivalent) wasn't such a good idea.

Other than that, I'm guessing. I suspect that while light is a fast swing to the hiding end, darkness is only a slow push in the other direction. I wonder if the strength of the light is a factor in the speed. Sometimes I wonder if they're tempted to hide on my hair, being a dark, grainy surface. I haven't yet gone as far as digging out my tiny stash of acupuncture pins and opening a vein to attract it despite the light, but tonight I'm tempted. It did come out when I had a nosebleed earlier tonight, after all.

That only accounts for about fifty neurones in total, so obviously a mosquito is more complicated than that. But I've got a hundred billion ... I win, right? Well, that's what I'm hoping...

neeed ... sleeeep.....

Very late last night, I read something that made me very angry.

Anger is an emotion I'm very unfamiliar with, actually. It doesn't come easily and I tend to repress it, or rationalise around it. I have a very high tolerance for misunderstanding; I have a very high tolerance for 'lack of progress' when things aren't urgent; I have a reasonably high tolerance for most aspects of standard human behaviour. So a lot of things that get people irritable or angry don't affect me.

I used to get angry, of course, when I was a young child; I remember several decent rolling-around-on-the-floor temper tantrums, none of which had any good cause. They probably lasted until I was about nine; by then I was starting to realise what I was losing, and to take more care of my dignity. Then, too, anger started turning to sadness and retreat - and eventually I started skipping even that step in favour of analysing the situation and, well, doing something about it. Or learning from it.

Part of it, I guess, is that I have a reasonable self-esteem in a lot of areas, these days. So it takes quite a lot to threaten me. It's not often that I encounter any cause for fear, real or imagined; I have a good life. You can't hurt me by saying I'm ugly, or fat, or stupid, or selfish, or a whiner, or silly, or nerdy, or any manner of other things, because I know what I am. (To wit: I look like your average Chinese, I have a poor appetite, people call me unusually intelligent, I do things predominantly for others, and I complain very little. And I'm silly and nerdy and geeky and indecisive and overly serious. So what?) I'm comfortable in my own skin. I'm even popular in certain circles, and loved by others.

I do place a high value on understanding. But I also appreciate that it's sometimes not easily obtained. If someone has misunderstood something, I know that that doesn't necessarily mean they think ill of me; such things can be resolved. Who knows, I might be mistaken, or I might not have made myself clear. I give people the benefit of the doubt in these situations too; I tend to assume they have good intentions, that they don't set out to malign me, and that nobody has perfect delivery. Some times understanding takes more effort than others.

I'm also used to having patience with and tolerance for people. If the lady at the bank has to sort out paperwork the previous customer left, before she can call me up, so be it. The person who stepped on the back of my shoe didn't actually do it deliberately. The patient who makes unreasonable demands is sick and needs comfort. The people in the queue in front of me have their own agendas and stresses. I don't need to get worked up about it.

When I see people's anger in these situations, I've always seen it as getting in the way of resolution - people alienate each other, make each other nervous, and stop communicating. I'm a communication junkie; I love to know that somebody understood what I meant, or how I feel, and to think that I can empathise with them in some way, and see what they are trying to tell me. Anger, as I see it, is often a barrier. And quite often a waste of time.

Which is not to say that I ignore injustice. I don't know, I must lead a charmed life, injustice seldom happens to me, or at least not in any serious way. And I don't have the sense of self-entitlement that leads some people to imagine injustice, whenever they don't get everything they want. When it does happen to others, I do what I can. I try to help those who need it. There are always options, ways around a situation, ways to cope and things to work on. I'm not motivated by revenge, but fairness appeals to me. And I have an exceedingly strong - overriding, even - sense of doing what is fair. Or trying to.


But anyway, last night, I was angry. Very much so. I even considered getting her back, showing her up by making it clear what I really was.

Of course, that idea quickly dissolved. What angered me was that realistically, there was no way to make things right and still be true to who I am and lead my life. There were options - there always are - I had considered and rejected them many times before- but they involve a lot more time and effort than I have available, or ever will. I am going to have a full-time job to go back to, after all.

So I did the first obvious thing: I vented to a friend. I didn't even have to tell her much, just point out what had happened and let her see the obvious injustice. She sympathised - that was all I needed - and I felt better immediately. After a rambling discussion on health, what she was cooking for dinner and what I had in the fridge, I thought I was ready for bed. It was 4am my time.

What I didn't fully appreciate was the energy that comes with anger. My mind was abuzz for the next two hours. I'm not one to think negatively of people, or to go over perceived misdeeds round and round again; I had already accepted that the injustice was there, and permanent; my previous efforts had come to nought. Where I was mistaken was in thinking that acceptance was the same as resolution. Instead, my mind got creative, and started presenting me with an infinite number of avenues. I could do this and this, and limit the damage... I could help others learn from my situation... I could be true to myself and what I really wanted to do by starting this or that project, and everyone would see. And maybe, yes, there was an easier way of showing her up; it wouldn't even have to be permanent ... no, here were some even better things to do with my time ... on and on.

I know now why they say never to go to bed on a dispute. Bedtime is the worst time to be angry, because you know you need sleep, and yet you can't. And you know that no matter what you think of, it will be best done in the morning; you'll be out of whack if you don't sleep; and yet you can't. The energy is there, whichever way you channel it, constructive or destructive ... it quickens your breathing and your pulse, raises your blood pressure, whooshes through your mind and your limbs. And you need your sleep! Darn it.

It got to six o'clock, normal time for our morning walk, although I knew Smith wouldn't be walking because he'd been up late trying to make something work. I got out of bed for a drink of water, and seriously considered doing the walk anyway, in the rain, by myself, just so I could sleep. I'd already tried progressive relaxation (and found my jaw was tense), and attempts at meditation, trying to block everything out with my mantra, but of course I was too tired for that to really work. Concentration was not available.

And then I dismissed the idea of the walk (I probably would have collapsed) and went back to bed, and Smith turned over and put his arms right around me ... held my head to his chest while he slept... and I was safe.

Only then could I let go, tell my creative mind to take a rest; only then could I slowly, visualising each colour in turn, bring my thoughts back to a normal level (I dunno, it works); and then, focused, take myself back to the reality of warm, soft bed, half-light, bird call outside ... cradled by my husband, I relaxed. Even then it took a while ... but I eventually slept.

And of course the options were all there in the morning, and some of them were more realistic than others. Morning is the best time to be creative, because you have the whole day ahead of you to do what you think best!

*sigh*

I haven't been that angry in a long, long while.

Happy New Year everyone!

Best wishes to you all for 2008!

It's been a hectic few days, and I'm not really in the habit of writing down everything yet. I've never been really good at keeping a journal. Not that I don't have anything good to say about things that have happened, just getting the motivation is the hard part.

Last night was New Year's Eve Sydney time, and as usual, we went down to the waterfront to watch the fireworks on the harbour. It seems to be a tradition in Smith's family, we've been for several years. This year, as well as Smith's mother, brother and his brother's fiance (I call her my sister for short, that's what we'll be in seven months! but here I'll refer to her as Tie) they brought one of their friends, who was pretty cool. Smith, his brother and the friend (I don't know how to spell her name, and haven't asked what to call her here) went down to the harbourside to reserve a spot at midday, while Tie and I went shopping for food supplies to tide us over. Smith's mum had to pack for a trip to Melbourne so she joined us later in the afternoon.

Shopping with Tie was fun, as always. I seem not to have inherited any fashion sense, but I'm surrounded by people who do have it - my dad, my real sister, as well as Tie and Smith's mum. I also generally hate shopping, but it's nice to have a guide who knows what she likes and how to really look around. Yesterday afternoon after buying salad, vegetarian luncheon meat and other goodies, and insect repellent and sunscreen, we shopped for sunhats. It was interestingly hard to find them. We thought we'd see them in the dollar stores, and sometimes they have them in pharmacies, but there was no luck there. Finally we found a bunch of them in Sportsgirl. Tie, Smith's brother and I wore our white sunhats all day!

Then it was down to the harbourside for the long wait 'til the midnight fireworks. We had a sunshelter tent set up, with folding chairs inside and out, and sat reading and chatting all afternoon and evening.

Although the fireworks were beautiful, I really need a year's break at least between such occasions. I'm naturally a quiet and introverted person, and I don't enjoy crowds or noise. While initially we had a relatively large space to ourselves, after a while the crowding was very tight, and there was alcohol flowing freely and contributing to the noise. After the nine o'clock fireworks there were even more people arriving, to the point where there were people standing directly behind my folding chair with their knees touching my back - for two hours while waiting for the midnight fireworks. And this is despite the fact that we had chosen a position with our backs to the path.

I sorely wanted to tell them to just go away. I wanted to get away from the noise and the crowding ... and the smells. The scent of tobacco is pleasant for a minute or so (I grew up a smoker's child, so I'm slightly used to it) but after a while it hurts; the additional odours of alcohol, the diesel engines on the boats, perspiration, spiced food, crushed greenery and magnesium sparklers all worsened the headache. Come there on a normal day and all you can smell is saltwater (and smog, I guess) - I guess that's the level of scent I'm used to, and too much is just overwhelming. Even the perfume section of a department store is difficult for me.

It didn't help that I was reading a book called The Highly Sensitive Person, by Elaine N. Aron. It describes people who find subtle things more stimulating than others, to the point where they easily become distressed by situations they find overly arousing. It's been a very interesting book, but one I have to read in sections before I can really take it in, as it requires a lot of thought.

My personal jury is still out on whether I belong to the 20% of people you can categorise as Highly Sensitive People (or HSPs). I picked up the book because I've often experienced the kind of distress you get when too much is happening, and there are so many times I've been too frazzled by stress to function or even sleep. But the descriptions of the trait are very detailed and don't exactly match me, so I'm still thinking about it. I'll probably write a little more about it later on.

Even the sensitivity to scent that I've just described may be normal. Our sense of smell is very closely linked to the emotional centre, after all. I guess most people can walk through the perfume section of a department store without their stomach churning, though.

It got to the point where I quietly asked Smith if we could skip the occasion next year. I love Smith's family and Tie, and I'm sure they will want to come again, and they can stay in our apartment as they did last night, but I'm not sure it's worth it for me to go with them next time. The fireworks were indeed beautiful, as they always are, but I've seen fireworks on the harbour many times before. I guess we'll see next year.

The whole occasion brings to mind one of my early memories. My family live near Manly, and one evening when I was about five we went to what must have been a Sea Eagles game at Brookvale. Anyway, the field and the spectator area were actually pretty small in those days (still are, I hear), and it was very crowded.

Before the game started there were fireworks. Now, even then I had always loved to watch fireworks on television, especially on New Year's Eve. We had also taken trips up to the nearest high lookout to watch the harbour fireworks from a distance (several miles). But this was the first time I'd experienced fireworks in person. I screamed at the noise of the explosions, and bawled at the crowds, and made such a fuss that my dad had to take me right out of the park. I don't remember if we even got to watch the game, I seem to remember we didn't. (I must have been a real brat.)

I am still a Sea Eagles fan, although not a real football follower, and I have always remembered that occasion with regret. But it's things like that, that make me wonder if I'm one of these HSPs. I guess I'll read more and we shall see.