Thursday, September 21, 2006

Big Spider Update

During the week, this last seven days, I was accosted by a BIG fucking SPIDER.

Throughout my schooling years I was told many facts and just as many lies. It can be said, I will say it, and with full awareness, that I have forgotten just as much truth as untruth but I could not always tell one from the other.
The sky is blue is easily reasoned as the truth. Dogs bark. Water is wet. Both are phrases used by the sarcastic and also true.
But what, for example, is this sarcasm but just some abstract such n’such. Can I hold a sarcastic comment in my bloody hands like the lifeless body of a child?
Does sarcasm exist or is it a generality given to those people with humour zones located between butt-cheeks? I have been told by supposed learned ones that sarcasm does exist and is the highest form of humour. Is this truth? Or lies? Cock? Or pig-eyes?
I dunno.
My point is I have been told reams of particulars. Some true and some not so much. Where it all goes wrong is when information adhered to - sometimes vehemently adhered to - and previously thought true becomes fiction through shocking, life-fucking tribulations.
A phrase that comes to mind now is: “You know, all animals have learned to fear man except only the most remote kind.”
Wow. Fascinating. Salient. Dot. Dot. Dot. NOT.

A spider, larger than usual, tried to rape my poor body.

So, about my business, I enter my room. Parents gone. Brother gone. All alone. But I stand tall in private, completely secure and confident in my company.
Until, that is.
Darkness falls and looms. Well, first looms. And then DESCENDS. My senses were shrouded in what I describe as darkness but I mean it only allegorically as actual darkness, night, had already taken charge over the countryside. The darkness I mean terrifies and contorts. The great leveller of men. Sanities erosion is just a tease of what I speak of. It also gives you aids. And uglifying cancers. The kind you can’t hide from strangers because you begin walking with a limp and speaking with a lisp. You dye your hair, then shave your head only the begin buying boxes of fashionable headwear. This darkness means business. So much so that from now I will only refer to it in capitals – DARKNESS - and in hushed tones.
And this shit surrounded me.

Except for a lonely spotlight. Shining from below. Illuminating my wall. Highlighting a beast.

What is truth?
Is it not sufficient to say the hairy cuntard was disposed of? Are details necessary? Pictures are worth a thousand words, they say. Maybe less if printed in a rag-sheet. “MEEHAN SAVED BY MOTHER”. Quiet a headline to read over cereal and juice. Or while squeezing one out, if you freak like that.
Can I say, in my defence, he was carrying a knife. Two knives. Shit. He carried four knives and a picture he drew of a red blob with an arrow pointing to it. “YOU, DEAD!” He didn’t fear me. And I’m man. I am man. I mean it.
And he staggered like he just came from a bar fight. All the way up the wall. Crashing into rubbish bins. Like a eight-legged tap dance. I swear I heard him say “What the fuck ar-oooooohh-inat?” That’s fighting talk.
In my defence, he had an accent. Of course I was going to be scared.

But all it took was a single look and everything changed. I was in love.

That’s a lie. I rang my mother. At first to say to someone, anyone, “Hey, there is a big bastard on my wall.” She asked if I wanted her over.
“No, just how do I rid my room of such a big bastard?”
She alerts me to the special, not-in-the-manual use of a vacuum cleaner for sucking away fearsome shitheads.
“Oh right, I can do that.”
She asks again if I want her over. She lives quite close, you see. I concede quickly to her.
“Well, if you want to look at him or something.” I say. “I mean, he is fucking huge like my cock.”

They say his friends will come out looking for him.

Gone, gone, all gone. Good riddance for another year. My mother, a better man than me, threw him outside with the wild animals. Out of civilisation. Gone like my tears.
On his return from wherever, I leap into my brothers attention and transcend known story telling with my account of how I bested this years BIG SPIDER.
“Sure, I didn’t even blink as I threw a kick into him.”
“Did you motherfuck him?”
“Did I motherfu… I’ll motherfuck you.”
Booze was drunk that night by gallons and whores bested at what they do naturally.

But all does not end with a story well told. Or a story just told. Needed is a twist to rival a clap in the gut. A shot in the dark or a sudden laugh. Needed is an image of a relaxed boy who believes himself safe. And a location…
A breezy bedroom. A lazy afternoon. Scratched balls and sniffed fingers. A stretch of a hand for an out of reach album. A strained groan. Oh. Tickled hairs. Twitching fingers. Automatic. An inquisitive look. Rumpled brow. An unwanted discovery. A spider-web from here to there. Technically amazing and inherently frightening.
A brief return to darkness.


  1. Is this the best time to tell you that, on average, a human being swallows 7 spiders a year in their sleep?

    Probably not.

    I'll shut up now.

  2. I store them in my cheeks at spit them at sleeping babies.

  3. The Post-it is much further away from the camera than the spider.

  4. I can see a sequle to this story after the bastard stops hibernating in the womblike caverns of your vac. All wombs are filled with fluff and two pees, right?