Love those spiders! As a kid, I was fascinated by the large, hairy ones that created webs so thick they looked like blinding fog. Also, I sprawled out on the kitchen or bathroom floor to better observe the skittery, rapid small guys making the arduous journey from the darkness of the world under the refrigerator to the open fields of floor tile, and on to the next hiding place. I believe that spiders go “eeek” at us just as much as we do when one startles us. Way beyond “eeek” comes the squashing of these “members of the household”, which to me is a crime. After all, spiders eat the nastier bugs they catch in their webs.
Member of the Household
A spider lives in her web spread from a window corner to the lower casing
There, she meditates in spider-contemplation
waiting for the web vibration
waiting without waiting in the nothingness of pre-destruction
Having surmounted the eagerness of her perception
Spider’s eight-foot golden body sits like a monk
dwelling in the fifth jhana of the infinity of space
Web-trembling signals her sprint to action
meeting life as fly’s electric buzzing complains
swaddling itself in sticky filaments
waiting without waiting, deep in struggle
In the last seconds before death, fly’s black body impulses against web resistance
intermittent minute rattling coming from limited perception
Having planted seeds for later harvesting
Spider pierces sacred survival
joins fly in purpose, utterly destroying - stainless, blameless
Six-foot blue-black body shimmering, flickering
Cessation
Background
On a completely different spider note, did you know that when a wood spider (probably any spider) was given a minute dose of LSD, its web took on a minimalist look with just a few long strands connected from plant to plant. Given caffeine, the spider built its web quickly with no effect on architecture; however, the spider gyrated, twitched and tumbled in rapid motion. Given THC, the arachnid didn’t build a web; it built a hammock where it lay all day watching the caffeine spider’s frantic building. (Almost kidding here.) How does one drug a spider? A Swiss pharmacologist, Peter N. Witt, dissolved the drug in sugar water, and after dunking a Q-tip into the solution, placed the fuzzy end on the spider’s not-so-happy mouth. An alternate vehicle was to feed drug-laced flies to the spider.
Not to be out done, the International Space Station has two of its own spiders who have had to adjust to zero gravity. The spiders’ first creative act under weightless conditions, resulted in pretty much patternless fabrications. However, on their second try, the arachnids built lovely, symmetrical webs that pleased all who saw them. Their rapid adaptation to life in space proved a hallmark in this experiment designed to capture the interest in science of Earth-bound students, but they had no doubt already read Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, which featured the same kind of spider as those on the ISS.
Exploration 1: What is it about spiders that most people don’t like?
Exploration 2: What the heck is going on in the last stanza? Does it have a deeper meaning?
Exploration 3: How could anyone consider a spider a “member of the household”?
Jack Pine Savage 8 October 18
Wannaska World 2018.10.08
Otto did, indeed, take a leisurely walk on the banks of the Mikinnak Crick, and headed toward the tree house. He needed to think. A lot was going on: Izzi, Freki, his dad’s surprise coming home, Renner, his classes – the ones he liked, and the ones he loathed – his sadness about Wink’s absence, and the physical changes that he could see every time he looked in the mirror or took a shower. Yes, a lot – more than Otto could remember ever having before. Was this what growing up was about? He couldn’t possibly know. He picked a dry weed, placed it the corner of his mouth, and lightly chewed, noticing the earthy taste. Ticking off and prioritizing his concerns, Otto concluded that at the top of his list rested his intense grief over Wink combined with his hope that Freki would “come home” soon to replace what he had lost with Wink. No, above canine considerations sat his dad because of his proximity, almost a stranger; certainly not someone he could confide in, but a large presence in the house. Usually, Bobby would be Otto’s confidant; however, Otto judged Bobby to know nothing more than he did, so he would be of little, or no, help. At that moment, Otto felt a great loneliness well up in him, and he wiped escaping tears from the corners of his eyes.
Arriving at the tree house, Otto leaned his backpack against the large, supporting tree, and climbed up to a quietness where a guy could think. He let his thoughts drift freely in and out, turning the images and feelings that arose over and over, and eventually making him quite anxious. “Breathe, buddy. Breathe.” Otto whispered under his breath. He stared out the rudimentary tree house door, hoping something in the way of a solution or two would arise out of the mists of his consciousness. Finally, his worries began to coalesce and focus on his dad and Freki. The solution was singular.
Now that Otto had a plan, he slipped down out of the tree house and headed home.
“Well, there you are, champ!” his father said cheerily, as Otto stepped in the house, banging the screen door. Peter stood at the kitchen counter slicing onions, green peppers, and fresh mushrooms. Paula Pepperhorst, stationed at the counter perpendicular to Peter’s sliced raw chicken into thin strips.
“Stir fry tonight,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “If we add a few potatoes and some coconut, I can make a curry. How does that sound to you both?”
“Great,” Peter responded.
“Okay,” Otto said without enthusiasm.
“Well that’s what it will be then,” she said with finality.
Otto scuffed his feet around the kitchen. His mother asked him to get two cups of rice from the pantry, handing him a measuring cup. Otto slowly headed for the rice.
“Why so glum, chum?” his dad chirped.
Otto decided to be out with it. “Oh, I’m missing Wink, and wishing Freki would stay here.”
“Who’s Freki?” Peter inquired.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. About a week ago, Otto came home with a dog with a wounded paw, apparently caught in a trap.”
"What kind of dog?” Peter directed this question to Otto.
“Don’t really know. Definitely a girl; looks kinda like a German Shepherd, but smaller with bigger ears.”
“What color was it?” Peter now took a more serious interest.
Paula interjected, “Kind of yellow-brown with white underneath. Looked suspicious to me.”
“What do you mean, suspicious?”
“Like wild, but yet like the German Shepherds down the road got mixed up with the Olsen’s Golden Retrievers.”
“I put out some food for her after she bolted the next morning, and I think she ate it all,” Otto piped up. “I named her Freki.”
“What kind of name is that?” Peter asked.
“It’s the name of one of Odin’s wolves,” Otto revealed with obvious pride that he knew something his dad did not.
“Whoa! I’m impressed! Did you learn that in school?”
“Yea, but I studied up some, too.”
“Well, Otto, you should have studied up on this Freki, too.”
“How come?”
“What you’ve got there is a coydog.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s pretty rare, but it’s a coyote that comes from one mating with a dog. Your German Shepherd is the probable culprit because he’s big enough that the coyote probably wouldn’t take him on in a fight, and he’s a wanderer. Yes, Otto, a fight. A coyote is a lot more likely to eat a dog than mate with it.”
“Gosh! I never thought about that!” Paula jumped in. “That’s why it was in the trap, right? Out near the Black Angus place, Somebody tried to kill Freki.” She seemed moderately upset.
“Come on, Otto,” Peter said suddenly. “Let’s go see if we can find Freki.” As Peter pulled on his denim jacket, he took his 20-gauge Remington from its rack on the kitchen wall, opened a cupboard drawer, and pocketed a fist full of shells. “I’m afraid you’ve got some of your mom’s city-girl blood.”
“Peter!”
“No, dad! Don’t kill Freki!”
“It’s only a precaution, son.” But Peter’s bubbly demeanor had turned dead serious.
Otto did, indeed, take a leisurely walk on the banks of the Mikinnak Crick, and headed toward the tree house. He needed to think. A lot was going on: Izzi, Freki, his dad’s surprise coming home, Renner, his classes – the ones he liked, and the ones he loathed – his sadness about Wink’s absence, and the physical changes that he could see every time he looked in the mirror or took a shower. Yes, a lot – more than Otto could remember ever having before. Was this what growing up was about? He couldn’t possibly know. He picked a dry weed, placed it the corner of his mouth, and lightly chewed, noticing the earthy taste. Ticking off and prioritizing his concerns, Otto concluded that at the top of his list rested his intense grief over Wink combined with his hope that Freki would “come home” soon to replace what he had lost with Wink. No, above canine considerations sat his dad because of his proximity, almost a stranger; certainly not someone he could confide in, but a large presence in the house. Usually, Bobby would be Otto’s confidant; however, Otto judged Bobby to know nothing more than he did, so he would be of little, or no, help. At that moment, Otto felt a great loneliness well up in him, and he wiped escaping tears from the corners of his eyes.
Arriving at the tree house, Otto leaned his backpack against the large, supporting tree, and climbed up to a quietness where a guy could think. He let his thoughts drift freely in and out, turning the images and feelings that arose over and over, and eventually making him quite anxious. “Breathe, buddy. Breathe.” Otto whispered under his breath. He stared out the rudimentary tree house door, hoping something in the way of a solution or two would arise out of the mists of his consciousness. Finally, his worries began to coalesce and focus on his dad and Freki. The solution was singular.
Now that Otto had a plan, he slipped down out of the tree house and headed home.
“Well, there you are, champ!” his father said cheerily, as Otto stepped in the house, banging the screen door. Peter stood at the kitchen counter slicing onions, green peppers, and fresh mushrooms. Paula Pepperhorst, stationed at the counter perpendicular to Peter’s sliced raw chicken into thin strips.
“Stir fry tonight,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “If we add a few potatoes and some coconut, I can make a curry. How does that sound to you both?”
“Great,” Peter responded.
“Okay,” Otto said without enthusiasm.
“Well that’s what it will be then,” she said with finality.
Otto scuffed his feet around the kitchen. His mother asked him to get two cups of rice from the pantry, handing him a measuring cup. Otto slowly headed for the rice.
“Why so glum, chum?” his dad chirped.
Otto decided to be out with it. “Oh, I’m missing Wink, and wishing Freki would stay here.”
“Who’s Freki?” Peter inquired.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. About a week ago, Otto came home with a dog with a wounded paw, apparently caught in a trap.”
"What kind of dog?” Peter directed this question to Otto.
“Don’t really know. Definitely a girl; looks kinda like a German Shepherd, but smaller with bigger ears.”
“What color was it?” Peter now took a more serious interest.
Paula interjected, “Kind of yellow-brown with white underneath. Looked suspicious to me.”
“What do you mean, suspicious?”
“Like wild, but yet like the German Shepherds down the road got mixed up with the Olsen’s Golden Retrievers.”
“I put out some food for her after she bolted the next morning, and I think she ate it all,” Otto piped up. “I named her Freki.”
“What kind of name is that?” Peter asked.
“It’s the name of one of Odin’s wolves,” Otto revealed with obvious pride that he knew something his dad did not.
“Whoa! I’m impressed! Did you learn that in school?”
“Yea, but I studied up some, too.”
“Well, Otto, you should have studied up on this Freki, too.”
“How come?”
“What you’ve got there is a coydog.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s pretty rare, but it’s a coyote that comes from one mating with a dog. Your German Shepherd is the probable culprit because he’s big enough that the coyote probably wouldn’t take him on in a fight, and he’s a wanderer. Yes, Otto, a fight. A coyote is a lot more likely to eat a dog than mate with it.”
“Gosh! I never thought about that!” Paula jumped in. “That’s why it was in the trap, right? Out near the Black Angus place, Somebody tried to kill Freki.” She seemed moderately upset.
“Come on, Otto,” Peter said suddenly. “Let’s go see if we can find Freki.” As Peter pulled on his denim jacket, he took his 20-gauge Remington from its rack on the kitchen wall, opened a cupboard drawer, and pocketed a fist full of shells. “I’m afraid you’ve got some of your mom’s city-girl blood.”
“Peter!”
“No, dad! Don’t kill Freki!”
“It’s only a precaution, son.” But Peter’s bubbly demeanor had turned dead serious.
Exploration#3 Slidell, Louisiana 2000.
ReplyDeleteI spent a week working on Jerry Solom's sailboat Indian Summer before they left for Norway. Being a steel sailboat, it was an oven both night and day in May. I learned that Minnesota has nothing on Louisiana when it came to scary creatures, one of which was their huge spiders. I talked to a woman who lived on one of the boats in the marina. She had a house too, somewhere in the city, that, in the bathroom of which she discovered a five-inch banana spider living. Knowing its propensity for eating bugs and the like (maybe small neighbor children too, I had no way of knowing) she kept a window open so it got some fresh air when she was down on the boat.
A couple weeks later, she found the wind had blown the window shut and the spider had died because of no air circulation; she thought the temperature probably was in excess of 100 degrees in there at the time.
Though I have little love nor ultimate fear of spiders, and waver between killing them outright and/or taking them gently from wherever they are construed threatening by one of my household and releasing them unharmed, a five-inch spider--in my bathroom--where my private parts play, may stretch my compassion for them and most certainly, require the use of my shotgun and/or propane torch to aid their prompt and immediate exit. I would probably staple its hide outside, below the bathroom window, as a sign to other banana spiders, to move on and not entertain we are huge spider lovers--which we ain't.