Bitten!

I was bitten.

Yeah, those little eight legged bastards turned on me. I've been a friend to spiders since I was 15 and learned to cohabitate peacefully with arachnids at camp.  At Peace Camp, as it were, I wound up walking into a giant web made by a Banana Spider who wound up on my face, and I swear I thought I heard the poor guy screaming. It was a lesson, because as I stood silently trying not to die of a heart attack, he was scrambling madly to get the hell off of my face, as I was a giant that just tore down his home.

After that, I became tolerant. After being tolerant, I became fascinated.  And with fascination, I discovered a beauty in these creepy little multifaceted beings.  Even the ones that can hurt you. They're so complex, so varied species to species. What power they have, ya know? Spiders are almost certainly named among people's biggest fears. That's so Machiavellian, to be feared like that. It's brilliant.

So, that being said, my original statement that they "turned on me" was just dramatic flair. I rolled over on one, in the middle of the night, and found myself the recipient of four terrific little fang-marks. On my ass.  The spider was just retaliating in a natural way, and I can't blame him.  I hope he escaped unscathed, though it's an unfair fight, spider vs. human, and I clearly had the advantage.

Before everyone gets frantic about brown recluses' necrotic venom, have no fear. I did see a doctor.  I'm fine, thanks. It was probably one of those little common brown spiders.

Once upon a time, in Puerto Rico, I saved a Cobalt Blue Tarantula from a river.  She was struggling, trying to climb onto a leaf. It was a beautiful struggle, her long, insanely blue legs clinging, alternating as one would slip off, fighting for her life.  I waded out and put my hands under her gently and brought her to shore.  Once on the ground, she turned to me and stood on her rear-most legs in her attack position, backing away slowly.

Its nature to strike out at what you fear, at what could hurt you. It applies to all species. Maybe exposure and an open minded mentality, my process for accepting spiders, would be a useful tactic in eliminating all of the half-crocked irrational fears floating around out there. 

Okay, except for boats. Nobody's getting me on a boat.

Scroll down to begin your spider-love. 













Cute, fuzzy!!  The Spotted Jumping Spider. Adorable, no?





(Bigger than this in person.)  This is my absolute favorite picture of the big girl I rescued in PR, safe on a rock.

 
Skeptically Yours.

Sunshine and Unicorns! <---- Lie

Cynicism, pessimism, skepticism...

It's all very tiring, the isms I employ.

And sometimes, I need an outlet for said negativity, and that's where my very good friend, beer, comes in handy.  The conversations that occur over beer rapidly evolve (devolve?) into what seem like life-altering clarities at the time. Sometimes, the next day, not so much. 

However, I think that this time around, I have a few gems to share.

*There is no such thing as "timing," in regards to love.  If two people are drawn together through the amazing power of pheromones or chemistry or whatever you want to call it, "timing" is simply an excuse.  I have an example:  in my youth, I fell in love with someone and he with me.  Neither one of us fit the other's mold...you know, that sometimes subconscious picture of the person you need to end up with.  So, despite the love, despite those very strong feelings, it was never going to work out from the beginning.  We blamed "bad timing" when it occurred, but the honesty in the situation was that there was never going to be "a time" at all.

*Everyone has a mold.  Like it or not.  You may not have consciously made a list, but somewhere, through childhood movies or watching your own parents, you have a mold of the person you need.  If you're making excuses about the person you're with/pursuing, maybe it's because you don't meet their mold or they don't meet yours.  Either way, excuses like "timing" will never fix the issue. 

*Sometimes, sci-fi fans, collision IS imminent.  Emotionally speaking, that is.  As in the above example, this was a relationship catastrophe just waiting to happen. It's like seeing an accident that is bound to occur, but not changing lanes.  I stuck with it though because I always abide by the principle that you should take the long way home.  And sometimes, even though it sucks, putting ourselves through these emotional paces and allowing the wreckage to ensue just means that the reconstruction needs to be brilliant.  Sometimes you have to participate in emotional demolition, enjoy the journey, and then survey the ruins. 

*There is a time to stop allowing the collisions to occur.  The reconstruction can only occur so many times before eventually, the frame is warped. 

This conversation was sponsored by the amazing beer at Tony's Darts Away in Burbank and a very good, very smart friend.  Local craft beer, girl talk, and vegan sausages...the damage to my waistline is outweighed (no pun intended) by the minutes of optimism and clarity it induced.  It may not be optimism level: sunshine and unicorns, but for me, it's pretty damned close.


Skeptically Yours.

Snapshot.

Plenty of moments are fresh enough in my head that it's better than a photo.


Nowadays, we snap pics of everything with our phones and it means little...yesteryear, each picture had greater value because you had to DO something with it...you had to take the film elsewhere and wait anxiously for the pictures to develop. I remember wondering if I had taken the picture at the right moment, if I had captured what I wanted on film. There was an anxiety about the wait, and anticipation. Nothing digital, nothing immediate.

Those pictures I will always cherish, that's for sure.


But the ones that are most vivid are those that I purposefully and methodically captured with my senses...the smell of the moment, the sounds, the feel of fabric on my fingers, the imperfections. I have many of those photos stashed in the parts of my brain that haven't been eroded yet, and there's one that I would like to share with the universe, in case it makes a single ounce of difference in the balance of good and negative energy surrounding my Uncle Kenny, and his impending death.


My grandmother's table sat crooked because the floor sloped, in fact...it felt usually like the entire house sloped, but it was as much a place of comfort as it was chaos. My grandmother was still alive back then, and there was a smell of cooking hamburger lingering in the kitchen, mixed with the cigarette smoke from a mix of Salem Slim Light 100's and Kentucky Best. The house on Crawford-Day Rd was filled always with sounds of Aunts and Uncles and Cousins, back when there was familial gravity and we all convened in Mt. Orab at what then seemed like random moments.


I waited on my Uncle Kenny's lap for my cheeseburger, ignoring him and the smoke and all else that occurred around me. When he spoke, his voice was a sing-song mix of Cat Stevens and Bob Dylan...and just as unintelligible as the latter. His breath smelled like Budweiser, and his beard tickled the back of my neck. I felt nothing but peace and calm in the moment, sitting on my Uncle's lap, and felt very loved as his niece. I felt, in that moment, like my Uncle Ken would have done anything to keep me safe, even if it meant giving up his own safety, or comfort, or freedom.  It's one of the few times I have felt that.


It's one of my only memories of him, and its a very good and simple one. 


Tradition on the Whitaker side is to send along a picture in the casket of a loved one that has passed, so in honor of that long standing practice, I'm sending this memory along before he goes. Maybe it'll help pave the path upon which he is bound to travel shortly.



Skeptically Yours.


  Thank you to my dear and talented friend, Dustin Barclay, for letting me use this amazing song (off of an amazing album) for Uncle Ken.