https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/3f3d80b27228157959561bdf6079503f.pdf 5bc52de343530ccba25e8ceb4ded622a PDF Text Text '1/Vasp Grace iHolloway Non-Fiction In the right tail light of my dad’s car is a wasp. Sun bleached: it lies preserved in the tomb that it died in. He told me it had been there since the day he got the car, “Do you see it?” He said as he pointed to the mummified body. It lay there in all its seemingly unmemorable pointless glory, and it still does. The only difference is the belated knowledge I have of its existence and the stripes that were once black on its fragile body were now a faded gray. It has accompanied me hundreds and thousands of miles, from the time I was stuck strictly to the role of back seat passenger to now. It remains the same, with a different driver, and consequently, what must seem to the wasp like an unusually cruel eternal damnation in a layer of hell that plays the same pop music on repeat. I never met the wasp. Our introduction may be better defined as a viewing of an exhibit. It felt as unnerving as the mummy exhibit I had gone to as a child, something not meant to be seen in the state it is in. Maybe this wasp was a powerful political figure in its nest and went out to campaign, maybe it was a famous philosopher, or some nut job that every other wasp would whisper about to each other with a judgmental side eye. I cannot begin to understand what it was, but it remains what it is in my eyes. In passing, I may not acknowledge its existence, but knowing it was once living and now dead attaches me to it with a conceptual empathetic humanism I have never understood before. The last time I encountered a wasp on such an intimate level it stung me, yet I still allow this one to occupy my mind with grace, not holding the grudge of its seven-times-removed great, great, great grandchild that harmed me. Would it still hold all the meaning it does if I had seen it alive? It might not have held its place in my thoughts if I had seen it dead on the ground. Somehow, the perfect preservation of its death is what connects me to it on such a deep level. I draw parallels between myself and the corpse in the taillight, a relic of its own time, and now mine. At a point in history, it was living, existing in the world to give and take as needed. Then it died, what I can only imagine was a suffocating, terrifying death, encased somewhere unknown and unable to escape. Whether it entered on its own or the time and place had perfectly aligned to seal its fate, its death was certified and inevitable. The wasp had no choice, but it knew no better than any other, Was it wishing it had lived 6^tk EditiQnLlte'iatn'ie Ufl �Wa&p In the right tail light of my dad’s car is a wasp. Sun bleached: it lies preserved in the tomb that it died in. He told me it had been there since the day he got the car, "Do you see it?” He said as he pointed to the mummified body. It lay there in all its seemingly unmemorable pointless glory, and it still does. The only difference is the belated knowledge I have of its existence and the stripes that were once black on its fragile body were now a faded gray. It has accompanied me hundreds and thousands of miles, from the time I was stuck strictly to the role of back seat passenger to now. It remains the same, with a different driver, and consequently, what must seem to the wasp like an unusually cruel eternal damnation in a layer of hell that plays the same pop music on repeat. I never met the wasp. Our introduction may be better defined as a viewing of an exhibit. It felt as unnerving as the mummy exhibit I had gone to as a child, something not meant to be seen in the state it is in. Maybe this wasp was a powerful political figure in its nest and went out to campaign, maybe it was a famous philosopher, or some nut job that every other wasp would whisper about to each other with a judgmental side eye. I cannot begin to understand what it was, but it remains what it is in my eyes. In passing, I may not acknowledge its existence, but knowing it was once living and now dead attaches me to it with a conceptual empathetic humanism I have never understood before. The last time I encountered a wasp on such an intimate level it stung me, yet 1 still allow this one to occupy my mind with grace, not holding the grudge of its seven-times-removed great, great, great grandchild that harmed me. Would it still hold all the meaning it does if I had seen it alive? It might not have held its place in my thoughts if I had seen it dead on the ground. Somehow, the perfect preservation of its death is what connects me to it on such a deep level. I draw parallels between myself and the corpse in the taillight, a relic of its own time, and now mine. At a point in history, it was living, existing in the world to give and take as needed. Then it died, what I can only imagine was a suffocating, terrifying death, encased somewhere unknown and unable to escape. Whether it entered on its own or the time and place had perfectly aligned to seal its fate, its death was certified and inevitable. The wasp had no choice, but it knew no better than any other. Was it wishing it had lived differently, thought differently, or been more than it was? Maybe its spirit now looked over its own body and thought, “What I wouldn't give to be in my hive this Sunday,” Only able to hear itself. LIV (ixpiission Magazine �Wasp Living in a little town, growing up under a corner streetlight that made itself known with its pale glow and incessant hum. It makes the ten-foot radius around it feel like some kind of obscure liminal space. I understand that wasp more than most people could. I live day to day, just as it did, unwavering in the routine of my survival. Maybe this town is my taillight, where I’m trapped, rarely seen, and most days forgotten—doomed to the same fate. Left knowing that in the end, no one was coming to save me. Or maybe the wasp has remained there to be some kind of motivational support while also rolling its eyes and muttering, "You’re dramatic, it could be worse. I mean, look at me.” There’s a beauty in it, even if to some it seems strange and macabre. Morbid as it may be, the wasp calms me. It is stuck, riding along the same streets, seeing the same scenes, in Wyoming, of all places it could’ve possibly been. It is confined to my life and my experiences, yet I believe it has made itself at home with me. A sense of comfort has formed between us, each knowing the other is there—even if one of us is just a dead bug. Despite our wasp and human language barrier, and my lack of insect clairvoyance, the appreciation for each other’s existence persists, even in its unspoken state. The wasp and I have an immortal attachment it remains unaware of. I’d like to believe that I could’ve shown it something the way it has shown me life through its ending, but I don’t know if that kind of thing would really matter to a wasp as much as I wish it would. I like to refer to it as the Grandfather Wasp, an integral part of its quiddity, preserving my perception of the world in its tiny, delicate form. It reminds me of the experience of existing, the lack of control every living being has over its own life, and how it all is intertwined. With or without me everything remains, and my significance can only be what is allowed. Even in what may seem like an insignificant form to something greater, I remain appreciated. I’ve learned a specific type of forgiveness for life through those faded gray and yellow stripes, one that allows me to exist as I am, without focusing on everything I should be. 64th fxUtionliteiatu-ie LV � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wasp Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Grace Holloway Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_07 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College