A Slow Revolution
In praise of slugs, autumn and the sensuality of fatigue
They glide slowly in incremental, continuous ripples across my garden path. Last year, a surge of mosquitoes seemed to visit my side of the valley for autumn’s arrival. This year, it appears to be slugs: huge ones. Arion Rufus, or the European Red Slug, can grow up to 14cm in length. The family members found in my garden have a fabulous orange underside and accompanying fringe, helping them get about in colourful slinky style.
Far from seeing them as a garden nuisance, I personally find slugs quite inspirational. They have a valuable role in the composting process, assist in seed germination, help disperse fungal spores and are a food source for other animals. The noble slug will not be rushed, taking their own sovereign time. They are of the night and hidden places, announcing their stately passage with tangles of luminescent disco trails. Slow, sensate, purposeful. Have you ever watched a slug eat a rose petal? I have. Not an experience to be missed and an excellent use of my time. Artist Abi Palmer has recently celebrated the slug too, in her exhibition Slime Mother. In this show (with accompanying film and book) she creates an alternate universe where slugs are worshipped rather than treated with disgust.
Things are on a go-slow. I found the second half of this summer exhausting, partly due to a resurgence of fatigue possibly brought on by some virus or other. The descent into autumn is helping to shift it somewhat, although I still find myself not able to leap around in a nymph-like manner as when in good energy. It is with some reluctance that I ponder looking beyond my neurodivergence diagnosis for possible causes of fatigue. After antibiotics for a lymes bite in 2013 I never had a blood test, and patterning issues are common. Covid has visited me four times, and other things may feature in the mix too.
Feeling super tired isn’t affecting my PhD zest thankfully. It seems I can curl up until Christmas and focus mostly on research, writing, audio work and some low key walking. I find myself with massive amounts of creative and intellectual energy, and am beginning to settle down into longer hours and word counts in my studio-office-shed-hut. Finally being in right relationship with the work is a deeply satisfying, sensual exchange when not encumbered by University processes and systems. Even though feeling somewhat slug-like, I have a spring in my slither and some sparkles in my trail.
Warning: if you are offended by invertebrate sex, read no further.
Being hermaphrodites, I assume slugs go by the pronoun they, although it would be polite to ask rather than assume. Every slug is born with both male and female reproductive parts, and any slug is able to lay eggs. Sluggish lovemaking is rather compelling, as seen in an episode of David Attenborough’s Wild Isles. Watching this otherworldly union is utterly mesmerising and has left me forever changed.
Honestly, it puts our human excitements to some degree of shame.
The queer, spellbinding love-dance of slugs fills me with romantic ideas about equality, fluidity, sensuous encounters, movement, shared possibilities and the beauty of slow. Slug shows me to value my body’s snail pace when in fatigue, to romance and make love to it. The slowness it brings me down from the whirlwind of neurodivergent pitter-patter and enables me to get on with what I really want to do, which is writing. If we can relax into it, the feeling of fatigue can be liminal and dreamy with enhanced sensitivity for noticing and being. Could needing to take it slowly even be seen as a bit sexy? I think so.
I would like to acknowledge that not having children puts me in a slightly different position than women/people who do. I can be tired and not have to look after others, and have structured my life so I don’t have to spin excess numbers of plates that AudHD moi would drop in spectacular, self-shattering fashion. I lie on the sofa and read books a lot. Not being in a conventional family setup however means that that some of us must look after ourselves and make our own cups of tea. Hopefully whatever position you are in, some shred of inspiration lies in these words.
Yes, health questions are a consideration but this too can be slow, an unfolding of discovery taken at our own pace. Like the slug trails, this isn’t a linear path. We are culturally conditioned to expect the answers immediately from a medical system that doesn’t join the dots, pressured to make ourselves well within a sick society when the medicine many of us need is to slow down. In the introduction to her book Moving Mountains: Writing Nature Through Illness and Disability, Louise Kenward writes:
“Themes of ‘conquering’ permeate through illness as well as the natural world, a nod to colonialism and species supremacy. Similar drivers contribute to tired and outdated regards for illness of wars, battles and moral failings. I wonder if a more respectful and reciprocal relationship between the human and more-than-human, and a more compassionate regard for both, is more likely to foster healthier outcomes for all.”
Louise Kenward
Slug inspires me so that they have made their way into two poems, which I have recorded for you. Both feature slugs, slowness and seem to end with maps. I may alter this to avoid repetition, but for now: the more disco trails, the better.
MOONFLOWER
hours draw long as I search for the way of stars in a time where June days bloom galaxies of poppies scarlet-golden-orange opening in symphony
my petals refuse pollination in such stark light yet try still to flower though the heart of this rose weighs tidal heavy with the years’ monsoon
but days slip away as scales tip seconds time reclaimed as shadow finds a way home darkness unfolds slow promises
of delicious lunar love nightly slug dance disco trails earth sky constellations: heart maps shining brighter than any wretched sun
GROUNDING
When this concrete-covered earth renders me seasick, land-locked to asphalt, I try to roll across gunmetal skies as clouds impregnated with rain to precipitate sensation. These feet are far too compliant. Skin wishes to undulate like the red slug in slow orange bellied glory, over one hundred fringed body parts touching soil in luminous secretion. If a disobedience of feathers could lift my sight to glimpse a fuller terrain, perhaps the landing places would see me, invite a softer descent. Today, it must be enough to lie face down in autumn leaves, let ants go about their six-legged business over my tired bones, learn from them new maps for moving in kinship.
Enough musings for now, as I have stayed up past my bedtime writing this and midnight is near. Wishing you ease and kindness on the other side of this weeks’ eclipse, and a slow, sensuous crawl into the autumn season.