Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Love and Venom
I had a spectacular arachnoerotic vision. I know my future. I have plans this weekend.
Next Saturday I'll take a walk across the street. A narrow strip of deciduous trees separates the Des Plaines River from River Road. I've never been down there, but I know what to expect.
I'll see a sluggish river clogged thick with algae. Fallen tress will lay across the banks, their former apexes now drowned in the lazy, murky current. Fractured stumps will fight a losing battle against the slow rot of humidity and insect infestation. The air will stink of decay and beaver shit. Stagnant green puddles will breed the first wave of this year's mosquito pestilence. The proof of their existence will be the manifestation of swirling clouds of infant insects tasting sun and diesel exhaust as their inborn bloodlust drives them to hot mammals.
It'll be a steamy afternoon. The sun will not blink, and the air will not budge. I'll be soaked in perspiration by the time I discover my plot. My search will conclude when I find a rare weedless patch of mud hiding lukewarm under shade. With branches and twigs I'll lay a thatched nest in the brackish sludge. After I shed my clothing, I'll lay myself naked face up in my bed. The mud will creep between my toes, into my armpits, and throughout my hair. Silt will cradle my balls.
Then, I will wait.
It may take a minute. It may take an hour. But I know the slow rhythm of my lungs and the gentle flutter of my eyelids will send an imperceptible message to my soul kin, driving them skyward. They will wake from their secret slumber and alight to the sky, a horde unspeakable. Millions of black eyes and billions of tiny bristles will quiver and flex, and they will come to touch me.
People hate spiders. Fearsome, ugly little monsters. Eight legs, a thousand eyes, and bad intentions. "I don't care if it eats flies, crush the fucking thing!" you say. Not I. Oh no.
When I see the graceful nimble prancing of eight legs, my soul is filled with ballet. When I see the spiraling webs, pirouette. When I witness the frantic scuttle to pounce upon prey, allegro. The flurry of attack upon the surprised dinner, entrechat. When the prone is spun for the pantry, coupe jete. The return to the nexus, promenade. Danseur noble.
My spiders will fly. On butterfly wings delicate and beautiful they will soar, fluttering under the sultry heat, not wilting, never tiring. They've amassed from the world over, a genetic message itching deep within their little brains, telling them: "Go there." All types, all species. Orb weaver, tarantula, recluse, funnel weaver, wolf, and garden. All harmonious, all cooperative, emerging from cocoons where their wings grew. A genetic marriage of the lepidoptera and the arachnids.
The afternoon sky will darken as the converging swarm swirls above. From every direction the sound will grow in volume. Not buzzing, not chirping, not scraping: Shuffling.
Finally, my flying spiders will descend for love. They'll dance across me, nipping and tickling and kissing. They'll drink my sweat and caress my pores. The sounds of crinkling paper mache will soothe my ears; a concerto of their collapsed wings sweeping across their neighbors' flexing limbs. My mouth will open and the chosen will offer themselves to me as sacrifice, crawling into my mouth, stopping on my tongue as they wait for my gleaming jaws to render them. My orgy. As they dance, I will harden, and I will come. They will drink. I am the seed, and they are the womb. I will sleep.
Next time, there will be an army. In twenty-five years, my family of human children will walk down to the river, and my next generation will resume the spawning ritual. My legacy, my eternal life. 9:40 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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