Warning: there is a high probability you may soon be thinking "oh-god-shut-up-you-oversentimental-fuck." Nonetheless, I will post this anyway.
So I was writing a poem to a woman friend of mine a while back (jesus, I know.) It wasn't a love poem, nor even a good poem. In fact the only cause for calling it a poem at all would be the poor use of punctuation and the rampant lack of any attempt to honor the conventions of basic language skills. Incidentally, while I've already worked up a fine tangent, I'll mention that this lady friend was so uninspired by this poem that she later found a way to use the phrase "utter fucking bullshit" twice correctly in a sentence, which I admired.
Not the point. During this bullshit fest I wrote something having to do with spider webs and somehow accidentally uncovered a thought that has chased me ever since.
I had done a mass amount of heavy research on how spiders create a web -- wikipedia actually -- becasue I had always wondered how a spider web actually begins. I had theories, but nothing as solid as wikipedia.
As it turns out a spider will spin one long strand of silk and allow it to be carried by a breeze, or sometimes just fall freely, all in the hopes that it will chance to stick to something. There is no advanced mechanics to it, no fancy web cannon, nor complex choreography. Instead, it is something akin to fishing; they cast a line out and hope it takes hold. Once it does, they climb out on that one thread and begin the creation of the extremely complicated mandala which is their home and food-source and nest and all. They lay their eggs here, feed their young, hunt, kill ,eat, hide, sleep, die here -- the whole thing beginning from what is essentially a leap of faith, an educated leap I'll admit, but definitely a leap of faith. When they spin that first thread, there is no knowing if this will indeed be the place. We do not see those webs that came to nothing. When we pass by in the moments before dawn and headlights betray the eyes of watching spiders, we see only the webs that were fulfilled. To the observer, all the other lost possibilities do not exist.
Reading too much into things? Possibly, but occaisionally when chasing down/ being chased by thoughs of the future, I think of this.
Then silk shoots out of my arse and all is well.
So I was writing a poem to a woman friend of mine a while back (jesus, I know.) It wasn't a love poem, nor even a good poem. In fact the only cause for calling it a poem at all would be the poor use of punctuation and the rampant lack of any attempt to honor the conventions of basic language skills. Incidentally, while I've already worked up a fine tangent, I'll mention that this lady friend was so uninspired by this poem that she later found a way to use the phrase "utter fucking bullshit" twice correctly in a sentence, which I admired.
Not the point. During this bullshit fest I wrote something having to do with spider webs and somehow accidentally uncovered a thought that has chased me ever since.
I had done a mass amount of heavy research on how spiders create a web -- wikipedia actually -- becasue I had always wondered how a spider web actually begins. I had theories, but nothing as solid as wikipedia.
As it turns out a spider will spin one long strand of silk and allow it to be carried by a breeze, or sometimes just fall freely, all in the hopes that it will chance to stick to something. There is no advanced mechanics to it, no fancy web cannon, nor complex choreography. Instead, it is something akin to fishing; they cast a line out and hope it takes hold. Once it does, they climb out on that one thread and begin the creation of the extremely complicated mandala which is their home and food-source and nest and all. They lay their eggs here, feed their young, hunt, kill ,eat, hide, sleep, die here -- the whole thing beginning from what is essentially a leap of faith, an educated leap I'll admit, but definitely a leap of faith. When they spin that first thread, there is no knowing if this will indeed be the place. We do not see those webs that came to nothing. When we pass by in the moments before dawn and headlights betray the eyes of watching spiders, we see only the webs that were fulfilled. To the observer, all the other lost possibilities do not exist.
Reading too much into things? Possibly, but occaisionally when chasing down/ being chased by thoughs of the future, I think of this.
Then silk shoots out of my arse and all is well.