“All loves have to die - of that there's no help;
My favorite way to end 'em
Is the orb-weaver spider's, whose pedipalp
Enters the female pudendum,
Then dies on the spot, his corpse there still stuck,
Left for his rivals to curse it.
He would rather die than not get to fuck:
Personally, I reckon it's worth it”-“Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me” by TISM (it’s a classic song, in case you didn’t know)
I think what I’ve been staring at every time I patrol the museum is an orb-weaver, at least. Which makes me feel better, since in my research on what kind of spider it was they seemed to be fairly benign as far as huge spiders with fangs go. It has the big, funnily shaped and brightly colored body for it. And the giant web. Perfectly symmetrical as far as I’m concerned, but if nobody’s knocked the thing down after I gruel through a few more seven hour shifts at the art museum I’m sure I’ll have spent enough time staring to find a few flaws. I’m hoping so, at least, since I can barely cut a neat circle out of paper. I can see that the web hangs by a few almost-invisible threads at the ends. I want to go outside and touch the silks, see how strong they need to be to hold such a behemoth. It’s not the risk of getting fired that worries me; it’s the risk of having a hand wrapped in gossamer and venom. I point out the web to my co-workers; those who have seen it just don’t know what to do with it.
Inside is our newest installation of modern art, the name of the exhibit I’ll withhold. Apiarian pieces hang from the ceiling, dangling over a pneumatic structure (that’s the word they told us to use with visitors…don’t confuse it with pneumonic when assisting a patron, I keep telling myself), a plastic bubble of air on which to lounge. When a guest comes in, we tell them to mind the black cords that stretch from the ceiling to the concrete floor. Should one snap, or should a reckless patron snap it, notify the security supervisor before the whole piece collapses, as it’s all connected. I think of the time and money put into this structurally-sound-until-proven-otherwise piece, the people who clamored to see it on opening night. No doubt if they weren’t horrified by the thing on the window it’s because they missed it entirely. The greatest masterpiece of that thing’s life. What else is left for it? If it isn’t swept off its eight suctiony feet by a broom or clobbered by someone’s size 10 loafer, maybe being spared by someone’s cutesy anthropomorphic mind, it gets to eat some crunchy bugs that get caught in its web, then the guy spider dies right after losing his virginity, the girl spider ends up devouring the body of the one she was saving it for, it doesn’t get to see its children grow, probably doesn’t even get to save the life of some pig. If it’s obliviously lucky, maybe it’ll get an admirer or two, just maybe someone bored enough to not only notice it, but go home and learn about its species and write out a page in dedication.
I know, nine months without writing and this is what you get? I mean I did have my Ecuador blog if you haven't read it...and I'll try to write in this more, since I've been in a writing mood as of late.