Mystic Symmetry

"Man-Moth"

If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye. It's all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens
as he stares back, and closes up the eye.

Butterflies elicit smiles, moths grimaces of disgust. As a child I had a fondness of catching Swallowtails butterflies that would cluster around my mother's bougainvilleas. Large and clumsily creatures, they were never as quick as their diminutive Monarch or Viceroy counterparts, and thus would always fall prey to my childish grasp. Feverishly beating their wings in long eyelash-like strokes, they would struggle and slowly wither in my palms. It was a cruel hobby for a child. The cruelty escaped me. Perhaps I was too mesmerized by their ethereal beauty to fully understand the impermanence and frailty of their constitution.
I would release them: damaged, broken, translucent. Hands covered with a powdery yellow essence, I would not stop to consider how thoughtlessly and greedily I had hoarded and robbed them of their magic.

My experience with moths on the other hand has been less than magical. Gypsy moths have invaded my cupboards on more than one occasion(they seem to have a penchant for Barilla pasta) and have even eaten their way through a whiter-than-the-pearly-heavens white cashmere sweater. Damn, those creatures for having such expensive tastes! Moths and butterflies fit the standard dualities of: pleasant vs. unpleasant, light vs. dark, auspicious vs. inauspicious.

In European folklore a black moth is a harbinger of death if it enters your home. However, a white moth if found in one's home represents the soul of a deceased family member. The Taqui, Indians of Mexico regard moths as the intermediaries between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

Butterflies on the other hand have enjoyed a more benign status and connotation, embodying the sensual, graceful, and feminine.


I find that a moth warrants equal attention and awe although it's beauty is not nearly as accessible as that of a butterfly's. In comparison, the moth is not as flashy; its color spectrum is not as diverse. It's activity is reserved for the nocturnal and waning hours. Peering back at us with false pupils, it seems to know our fears. It can stare us down, intimated us, and hold us captivate with it's mystic symmetry. In those strange eyes we glimpse our most primitive and vestigial portions: split, discarded, and made whole again.