Pound for pound there’s nothing as scary as a spider. What would you rather fight, a 200 pound dog, cat, man, gorilla, or spider? Of course, that’s not fair. A gorilla that big is normal, but if you look outside your window and see a spider the size of a labrador retriever, then shit has gone seriously sideways, you are trapped in a Stephen King novel. Still though, spiders, you don’t want a big one on your face. I think we can all agree on that.
There are several formidable arachnids in our back yard. The biggest of the brood has proportions that match those of Shelob. Low and squat with a large dangerously colored abdomen. After wandering into its thick clinging web one night I instituted a strict “daylight only” policy on compost deposits. He’s stationed just above, an ideal spot to feast on flies, and one might assume, unwary home owners.
The smallest of our backyard dwellers
At dinner this evening, my wife Michelle suddenly pointed at me with a look on her face that said, “What’s that?” Unfortunately, I interpreted it to be, “What’s that!” Nervously, I took a quick swipe at my face, and when I did, I felt something move, so I slapped at my face with purpose, but still didn’t come away with anything. It would be fair to say that I now clubbed my head frantically in abject terror as I fell off my chair.
I over reacted. That’s clear now. A weightless fiber was stuck on my lip and on the end of that, a small piece of my dinner. When I turned my head I started it swinging, and that was what I felt move. My attacker was poached Sole.
Michelle laughed so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Had she been drinking, it would have squirted out her nose, instead her mouth full of food took the same route. She was forced to alternate her pointing and laughing with choking and gasping for air. Which proves my point, spiders are dangerous, even imagined ones.
The difference between utility and utility plus beauty is the difference between telephone wires and the spider web. – Edwin Way Teale
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We must walk to the end of our street and around the row of houses to get to the dog park. Well, I walk, the dogs like to run, it takes them about thirty seconds. Keeping them in check for the short walk is more bother than it is worth, but letting them run ahead puts them in danger of traffic, and into the park a full minute ahead of me. So I make them wait.
I lost my innocence last week. A person I don’t know went out of their way to tell me I sucked. I got my first heckler.
I began to write in the cheapest notebooks I could find. Coil bound things I bought for about two dollars. The contents evolved into something that was worth more than two bucks to me. This began my search for an alternative that has resulted in a virgin sacrifice.
Each book comes with an insert that tells the history of the “legendary notebook used for the past two centuries by great artists and thinkers, including Vincent Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway, and Bruce Chatwin.” I understand the marketing slant, but for fuck sakes. Great literature has also been created using ink jet printers, but I don’t think they share the credit.
I wrote about Mya for selfish reasons. It was cathartic. I thought a few people I know would be interested in the news, but thousands and thousands of people read about Mya, more than have ever come here before. Some people, most of whom I have no other connection to, were touched, and went out of their way to share personal stories, email good wishes, and generally to say lovely things. That is unexpected, and it moved me.