So, the festival is officially international, right? We have a company that we have here. Oh, really? Wow, how was that? That's why I was like, I didn't say anything. He doesn't remember me at all. I messed up by the time I got there. Yibi, I mean... Eating that bread baby was 400 and that was the 48 that he took for us. I wasn't hungry at all. I got a tomato in my bag and I was thinking about eating it. Yeah, I love tomatoes. Yeah, I don't know. Are we live? I didn't do that really. Oh my god. I'll be in the reaction video. It's a terrible girl. Are you okay? Yeah, I'm fine. Of course. Yeah, it's fine. Yeah, it's gonna get splashed. Then I'll put my... Maybe I'll put it on the corner. Is this all right for me? Yeah, it's fine. Yeah. Yeah, I'm taller. I'm taller. Oh yeah, I was like... No, but I was trying to remember what I was saying. I am so big. Yeah. How are you? We're good. We're so good. Do you want to go take a look at them? I will. Yeah. I'll be left with a spinning ball of death and have to reboot. I steal gum from gas stations. It's like I can't help myself. When company was coming over. I can't remember the last time I had company over. This keeps my closet much cleaner. I don't like to fall. It's the boy I had crush on. She didn't know I had crush on him. After they kissed, he never spoke again. Upon a time, there was a woman named Claire. Behind a barricaded door, she labored over saucers of soup and pans of pot roast, creating and tasting, tasting and photographing, photographing and reviewing, reviewing and writing, writing for her blog. Thousands of people journeyed to her site each day to see what she had cooked up. They clicked, they commented, they linked. Sometimes they tried her recipes at home and they would take photographs of it and send those to her very much. In fact, they pleased her so much that she would click and comment and link back and click again and link. And then the soup would begin to boil and she would bookmark for later and start and tag. When she returned, her eyes would glaze over at all the stars and bookmarks and tags and she would click save and open a new window. Gradually, her readers became hazy shells of what they once had seen. They were strange coated names. They were numbers, not bodies or faces or smells or tastes or movement. She had lost track, lost touch. Slowly, the color drained out of her vegetables. Her flan flopped, her bread burnt. She singed the edges of her shepherd's pie. Everything tasted like glue. To combat her growing anxiety, Claire updated her Facebook. To feed her emptiness, she gorged herself on Twitter feeds, blogs, news sites, and gazed at rings and rings of email. One morning, she couldn't smell the soap by her sink much less the sprouts of her salad. Her mind so filled with a buzzing sound of infobits, she didn't notice the buzzing sound of tiny wings and her sound moved in her until she browned like a banana. The bees are telling me to get on with it. Did I mention there are bees? It was bees buzzing. And the woman is me, Claire. I've been talking about myself in third person a lot lately. I blame Facebook. Claire is making a quiche. Claire is confused. Claire doesn't like to fall. Claire likes to stay on top of it all. Claire cooks, Claire writes, Claire edits. This is a collection of Claire's discards. She stacks them up and piles them neatly with something nice.  Delete, delete, delete, modify, polish it up, make a joke, repost, ready to go. This, but it needs to be smoothed out into witty heavings of metaphor, pop culture references, sly winks, ready for the banter of her friends to be given a comment, a comment, a comment, a comment. It is what it is. I'll do what it takes. You can touch. The bees are getting impatient. The story they're saying. It took a couple of days before we realized that my cousin Zebulon had disappeared. I come from a large family and we look out for each other, but we also take care of ourselves. At any second, a few thousand of us will be out looking for the best place to find our food. This might make it seem like a flipping mess of chaos, but really it's quite organized. We don't do the whole top-down thing, but we follow predictable patterns. Zebulon was one of the strongest workers in our family. He had a knack for finding really good pastures and then relaying that information back to the rest of us. And then he went right back out again. He wasn't the kind to take much of a break between trips. So at first we just thought he was out on a really thorough scouting. He disappeared, word got around that he hadn't been working as hard and he'd been acting funny for a few days. He'd seemed drained and tired. He'd gotten lost, gotten confused on the directions. And then he flew off and we never saw him again. Usually we don't have time to worry when just one of us goes missing, but then the same things started happening over and over again. Strong workers would get tired, nauseous, confused and then fly off at random directions. Sometimes we found their bodies alone and far from the hive. Usually they just disappeared. We've survived all sorts of things in the past. Winters that have lasted for years, floods, droughts. Still, this kind of insanity scared me more than the others because it slashed us beneath our defenses. In times of trouble we can hunker down, but this one we couldn't figure out. I left because I didn't know how long it would be until I got thrown off track two. I decided it would be better to choose where I was going rather than end up in some place like Antarctica by accident. I stared at the ceiling for 30 minutes this morning before getting out of bed while actually rolling out of bed. Claire's bed is only two inches off the floor because Claire hates falling. Claire picked herself up and made herself breakfast. Claire went into the contents of her breakfast. Of course, Claire isn't actually posting any of these updates anyway so she may as well load her breakfast. Toast with cinnamon honey. Claire isn't bored with her breakfast. Everything tastes the same. Claire got ready for work in record time today and found herself staring out the window as they did in the old days when there were gardens outside windows. Only this window just has the news. The world is going to hell. The next elections are going to ruin your life. There are no jobs for anyone anywhere. Claire is going to consider salads, chrysanthemums, citrus blossoms, daisies, dandelions, daylilies, and elderflowers, hibiscus, honeysuckle, lavender, nasturtium, rose hips, sunflowers, violets, focus, focus, focus, email sent. My next assignment, Judy's photos, Kelly and me at the beach, Kelly and me at the bar, Kelly and me at Joe's birthday bash, Kelly and Joe and me, Kelly and me! I lost track of time as a multitude of windows. The possibilities are endless. In servings, eight ounces, one cup, five large, one teaspoon, one pint, just a pinch, butter, egg, almonds, lemon juice, salt, nutmeg, a shark. I once heard someone talking on the radio about how there's this little piece of land down deep in all of us that is solely inhabited by God. He was a monk or something. And it was his way of saying that we're all basically good when you get down deep enough. What he didn't say is that there is also this place down deep in each of us, which I call Arizona. The middle of my Arizona is a house I dreamt of once. It looks all in these red clay flats. It's empty all around, but you can see the mountains at a distance. In my Arizona, you can push your brother outside so you can watch what you want to on TV. Or maybe you don't even want to watch TV. Maybe you just want to sing or stare at the ceiling or make a fort with pillows. Meanwhile, your brother is standing outside staring out at this mesa filled with coyotes and javelinas that are all laughing at him. And his only option is to holler back at a place where you can get away with things. I need a signature. He doesn't have your sign? No. I need a change. I need a signature. You'll need to let me in. Look, no fence, but I... Okay, sure. Here you go. What are you cooking in there? What? It smells good out here. What are you cooking? Oh, thanks. It's a fruit tart. Blueberries. Wow, it sounds really good. Yeah, it's pretty spectacular. I'd love to try some. Here's my signature. I have to get back to the stove. You know, you could try adding some nasturtiums to the honey before you mix it. It might be good. That's a good idea. Do you cook? Not really. I work with food. Oh. Right. Deliveries. Right. I'll let you know how it goes. Maybe I could even try some next time. Maybe. I could leave some outside for you if you let me know when you're coming. Gotcha. You don't want visitors. I understand. Just busy. Thanks for the suggestion. No problem. Have a nice day. You too. Send me the wrong flower, 8 p.m. deadline. And I have to do it because this is my job. And if I don't, then I won't get paid. And then I'll get kicked out of my apartment.  Butter, salt. I'm talking to you. Claire, Claire, crazy. Cooked up Claire, talking to bees. What's this? I wonder. Everything smells the same. Message from Judy. We're very kind of you are. We're worried about you. Maybe we could get together for coffee sometime and catch up on the important decisions of your life, your loving sister, Judy. Judy. I hope you check your video messages soon because I don't have time to e-mail. But I'm well. I'm happy with my food, my apartment, my friends. As for coffee, that would be nice. But don't expect anything but for the first of next sometime. If you want to get caught up, you can check my blog. I'm working on a new post. Can I have an exterminator, please? Yes. Right over there. All right, thank you. Ace extermination services. Oh, thanks for coming. Can I come in? Sure, that's my job. Now, did you see our ad in Sunday's paper? No, I found you online. Gotcha. Now, you have wasps. No, bees. Bees? Why don't anyone want to get rid of bees? Bees are great. If you didn't met a bee, you must have wasps. Of course I met a bee. That's why I called you. It's driving me crazy.  It was fuzzy and round like a bee. I think you got the wrong thing. Bees aren't aggressive. In fact, they were really friendly and nice to hang out with. I think you have wasps. Look, I don't need a little lecture about bees. Are you going to do some exterminating? That's what you are, exterminator. Okay, okay. Now, is there anywhere that you've noticed a higher concentration of bees? Because if we can find their nesting site, we can pretty much control it, either through removal or spraying. Well, just the one. Just the one? Yes, but it's crazy annoying. I can't think or do anything without it always buzzing around my head. One bee? Yes, but I also found a wing in my frosted flakes and an antenna in my sink. This morning there was pollen on my nose. Every time I try to work, all I hear is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. I don't see it here now. Do you? No, it's just strange. It's probably out pollinating your food for you. I get it. Bees are for the warmers. Whoa, no need to be kind of sending. But they can stay outside for that. Thank you. Maybe it's trying to tell you something. A bee. You never know. Fine, look. I'll call you again when it comes back, which it will do, I'm sure. Okay. Have a nice day. You too. No, extensive damage. Good. Are you the only one here? Yes. Okay, for your own safety, I'm going to need to ask you to make sure everything is okay. Sometimes these things can just fester in a wall or a couch in the night when you're not looking. What are you talking about? The fire. What fire? We saw a blazing light from street level, so we came charging up. You might not know it, but this city actually has one of the most mobilized volunteer firefighting teams in all of this surrounding town. We have excellent response times. Now, step out of the hallway. Good, good. No time to collect your possessions. What happened to song? It certainly doesn't look that way, but as I said, there can be these sleeper fires. We wouldn't even notice until it's too late. There's no fire. What do you call that? We're cooking, and it's completely under control. It's not natural. What?  No. Weird. Sorry about the mistake. You would call us if there was a fire, right? Of course. Because we are your best first responders. Okay. Bye. See ya. In a Google search, he posted this to Facebook, and his girlfriend responded. See, that's kind of why I love you. I don't like to fall.  Claire wants to put hibiscus blossoms in everything. Claire has a swarm of bees that follows her from day into night and back again in very strange dreams. Are bees dying? Are they honeybees? Can I have them? Right, you know you're kind of bees, huh? I thought they were wasps. Delete. You know they're bees for the reminder. What are you doing tonight? Delete. Claire is making a quiche. Claire is thinking about her grandmother. Claire is washing the dishes and washing the dishes and washing the dishes and not thinking about rank. She's thinking about the bees. She's tiptoeing around the ones that are crawling on the floor. She's dreaming of smashing the ones that are climbing up the windows and sucking them all into a shop bag where they can be nuts and contained and...  You danced differently than anyone I've ever seen before.  What about this? Shuddering when it will spring just around the corner. Holding a drop with a dew in one's legs. These hum as they feed the newborns in the center of the hive.  What's a poet? Someone who writes poems, who puts words together so they feel good so there's magic in them. That's how you dance. Bea, I was just trying to follow along. Do this. You see? Got it. Just relax, follow them. I'm just saying it with your singing it. Where I come from we only use the dance to convey information about how the hive functions. Go here to find a plentiful food source. We shall erect walls for the winter. We must eject the diseased and dying from the hives, etc., etc. So just for telling you something. Information. Check this out. I don't know. They would be at the top of your arms. How's this? It's all in the shadow. Like, pebbles in the pond. Dance, sir. It might be better than the sticky stuff that they pour in our hives sometimes. Sometimes she wants to put lilacs and lavender and pansies in the soup just to see what happens. Bea's love lilacs and lavender and pansies throw them in. Claire sometimes steals gum from gas stations. Bea's sometimes steal nectar from the neighbor's yard? Where's mac and cheese from a box? Bea's are getting tired of almond tree strip malls the same everywhere you go. Claire doesn't like her brother at all. Bea's don't like being carted about with no sand in the matter? Claire doesn't like to fall. Bea's are losing the battle. Claire puts dirty dishes in the closet when company's coming over. When was the last time you had company over? Well, you're here. Sure. Your turn. Right. What do you want? Your buzzing. I'm talking. I'm just talking. But you're not really telling me anything. I just told you all kinds of things. We need to hear your soul. My soul? Your buzzing and buzzing like everything else we can't hear you anymore. My phone? I just turned it off. No. Not just that thing. It's everything buzzing and buzzing and beeping and humming and buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. How do you get anything done? It's how the world stays connected. We can't find their nesting site. It's everywhere and nowhere. That's the beauty of it. And the waves.   You're making honey, Claire, but you've forgotten how to choose your own flowers. Claire cooks, Claire rides, Claire edits. Buzzing and waves. Everything smells the same. Everything tastes like glue. You've forgotten the delicacy of cumin, of coriander. Claire stays on top of it all. And the sun. And the sun is off course and multiplying. Fake suns everywhere. No wonder you're confused. They look like fires.  And yours. Six degrees from the sun? No. See what I mean? Yes, now it is. The sun has moved since we began talking. At least I think it's seven degrees. It could be a fake sun. I can't tell anymore. How did you know it was seven degrees? You mean this? You understood that. I think so. One big assembly line? Yes. This? What are you talking about? All of it. We're sick. You too. I don't feel sick. I think you're blowing this way out of proportion. None left? There's no honey left. It's okay, I can just use sugar. Claire, there is no honey left. Yours, mine, all of ours. I'm turning that thing off. Work once again, retest this way. There's no honey left. It's okay, I can use cinnamon or something. There's no lavender. There are no blueberries. Yes, I've noticed that, but it's only temporary. These things happen. Really? Everything smells the same. Everything tastes like colloquium. There is no honey left. Tell us. That's who you are. Fair cooks, clear rights, clear edits. Buzzing and waves. We need to hear your soul. Dreams of Arizona? Yes. In my Arizona, you can push your brother outside so you can watch. I don't think I can do this.  Try it that way. Like this? Yes. Yes, Claire. But now not just about Arizona. Tell us your soul. The swing of landing on a pedal. Not of honey, not of honey. But then there's this. Yes. Yes, Claire. Now tell us. Tell us all the things that you forgot. To tell you that people scare you up close and personal. And they want things. They see right through you. See that you can't speak or remember the cumin. Or give your heart away. I want to tell you about the day in the park. When the sky was so blue and you let yourself lie on the grass and dream far into the future of a house by a lake and a child in your lap. Or the day in the library when you trapped down all the stories of perception. Day by day, cooking and tasting, tasting and reviewing, reviewing and writing for your blog. That doesn't really exist. Your readers see the remnants of your thoughts, of your cooking and tasting. They see the footprints of your thoughts. They know your name but you don't know theirs. You can't see each other's faces. See the wrinkles and know whether they signify confusion or anxiety or deep concentration. They know that your favorite color is violet. Because it's on a small square when they read your reviews.  I forgot to tell you that, too. And? When I forgot to tell you I used to love those things. I forgot to tell you that what I really want to do is to guard it and to dance. And to make up your own recipes.  Claire, there is no honey left. There is no cumin. The almonds have all lost their flavor. There is no lavender. And the blueberries. There is no honey left. There is no cumin. The almonds have all lost their flavor. There is no lavender. And the blueberries. There is no honey left. There is no cumin. troops. Awake to the world around you. We are dying. We are falling one by one, but we can return. Gather wherever you can. Gather in Antarctica, Brazil, or our island. Offer yourselves the feet of the bees. Save for salvation. Save wisdom. Save beauty. Save sustenance. A rain falls down. The mountains split apart. We dart from pebble to pebble. Tree to tree. But now we are kept in boxes, trucked down the road from one momentary to the next. We drink the honey. We drink the mead.  Our buzzens become a hum. The faint trickle of the roars we used to give.  Gathering around our little bee ankles. The leaders of today look the other way. They think we will roll over. Give up our domain. They brought out the big guns. Poisoned for our friends. We stagger. Artificial sweeteners will not grow the potatoes. We must take up arms. We must spread the news far and wide. Those of you on the rooftops of New York. Those of you in the paddles of Vermont. Those of you given minutes of freedom from the California trucks. Sing at the river. Tell of our triumphs. Tell how we grow the peonies and the eggplants. On the table we had stayed behind to watch the tomato farm. Dan flew off to see never return. Asher settled into the strands of a fraying carpet, hoping the daisies would turn real. Nathalie told jokes looked the other way in denial. Zebulun flew up, up. No return. We will work and we will see no reward but the continued existence of the world. The stars will continue to shine. The floods will continue to rise. We will stay the course. We live in our tents our communal years. Emerge to bring blessings. They ask of us water. We give them honey. Come back to the world of touch. We see misshapen tomatoes. Stop eating cardboard. Engage with the world. Take on the commercial farmers. Take on the incessant buzzing, distracting us from our tasks. Look out the window. See the red clay flats. Hear the hoes of time. We think we will be okay. They've found workarounds with their pesticides and trucks, the chemical engineering and looking the other way as we perish. But they will perish as we perish. And we will turn to the sun. We fly onward. Pack your bags. We will rest for 40 years.