11:42 p.m. I sort of like the spider on my ceiling. I say "sort of" and "like," qualifiers which I normally despise despite the frequency of my using them, because I think this spider is the reason why I have these gigantic scars all over me and why I occasionally get fatally ill. I think it's what's called in the spider-naming biz "a brown recluse"-- it's certainly brown; and it's certainly shy; and apparently this kind of spider is extremely venomous (more poisonous than a black widow spider, which I also like as well). This spider -- let's name him Bruce -- Bruce lives on my ceiling, sitting there placidly like god, probably descending in the dark when I'm asleep and suckling on my protruberant face-- again, just like god.

I just lay on my bed right now, waiting for the phone to ring (much of my life these days seem to consist of waiting for the phone to ring), watching Bruce in his labyrinthine machinations above me, wondering idly if I should actually try to do something Promethan, something out of the Book of Genesis, and actually arise and smoosh Bruce my spider-god flat. Dare I fulfil the strictures of my peculiar personal mythology?

I'm listening to Lovage,

you are the bitter
I am the sweet
you are the middle
I am the meat
you are the trick
I am the treat

This seems appropriate, for some reason.

Huh. Bruce has, in this interval whilst I turned my back upon him writing this, lumbared off to his secretive cave, his spider-cave in the wadded-up halloween of my ceiling. And suddenly I feel very itchy.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

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