Ahh. . .here we are. . . Our little home in our little corner of a finely spun and intricately woven web. A web so incredibly delicate it has three billion strands and is growing daily, and it is as if many of those strands are really big with much content and very big important spiders at their hubs, and many many more are eensy and teeny tiny little atoms in the dew that collects in the
cyber-morning, when half the web sleeps and half is in daylight. . . And we are reminded that the world is very big indeed. . . .that a web implies a spider, and a spider implies a poison, and that a poison implies a need for prey. . . and as we muse on the little spider it becomes the first object we may fix in our crosshairs, our first minute and shiny exoskeletal muse, inspiring us on our safari through the WORLD WIDE WEB. . .
let us offer a moth to Arachne then, imagining it's crunchy and delicate bitterness,and wrap ourselves further and tighter into our silken sleeping bags, then turn and attend to that which comes next . . . .
Which must be the gravity with which we confront desire
as gravity is what holds our web in place, at least that is, until we deconstruct it, and find that --surprise of all surprises-- what is inside the impulse to make a web is the web itself. . . that, we live at the ever shifting point of the equipoise between what is earthen and what is rising out of death. . .
as we move ever toward the center of that which has no center, as we make ourselves a center of the