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Other articles in Continued
OLD AND FRAIL BUT PROUD, Page 2 26 August 2009
Homosexuality and the Church, Page 2 21 July 2009
THE RIDE TO A CASHLESS SOCIETY, Page 2 21 July 2009
| Imperfect Reflections: Shadow Dancer |
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| Continued |
| Written by Connor Delaney Rickett |
| Saturday, 14 February 2009 01:07 |
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Continued From: Ancient I do not understand the way people sometimes speak of something as “disgusting” or “creepy,” because they are applying a human concept to something greater. What right have we to challenge the beauty of one thing against another? All things in nature are beautiful in a way people always seem to miss; they are the product of three billion years of survivors. They are beautiful because they take a disordered universe, and add meaning to it. There is beauty in the deadly simplicity of the virus, in the streamlined lethality of a shark, and in the stolid determination of a snail to get where it’s going. There is beauty in rats, mice, and cockroaches, in the way the fight every single attempt we make to destroy them. There is no need to explain the beauty of things like elephants or bears, because people can always see the beauty in power. The most beautiful animal of all, obviously, is the vulture. I know of no other creature that could live its whole life without killing one single living thing. Except, of course, the noble earthworm. Shadow Dancer
Anyone who lives in the Southwest has seen the webs, messy, seemingly without any order at all. Along the walls of alleys and the base of woodpiles, hugging the shadows, is where they can most often be found. When I was very young I would go hunting for them in the backyard, braving what I thought was a great danger to vanquish the little arachnids, which would seem to be blacker patches hiding in the shadows of the night. Fascination would mingle with the fear of feeling the pinprick of a bite, and the image of venom flowing through my veins to stop my heart. Tickling the gossamer webs like a trapped cicada to trick the midnight matriarchs into rushing out, then catching them with a hand or a jar was a great victory from someone so small. Afterwards, the gentle silky stickiness of the broken webs on my fingers would recall the light touch of ebony legs. Every time I walked away from an encounter I imagined the small victory had made me somehow larger. Perhaps so, for after awhile I outgrew my fears, and outmaneuvering something so small, however deadly, became a hollow victory. Years later I sat in my office at work. We can’t use bug spray there, so there is a bit of a problem with crickets and cockroaches. I was watching a cricket zigzagging its way across the dull gray concrete floor, making its way slowly but inexorably towards the crack under the door to the outside. His (it is fairly easy to determine the gender of crickets, even from a distance) little antenna were flipping wildly around, tracing little circles in the air. Crickets move strangely, if you ever stop to watch. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle, hop! seems to be their preferred mode of locomotion. I stayed as still as I could as he came closer, in hopes of catching him by surprise with my right foot, but I was not still enough; as he came closer he suddenly veered away towards the shadow of my desk. He was still within range, so I prepared to stomp him, but as I raised my foot I saw that he was moving strangely, no more scuttling, just hopping in place, as if attached to an invisible bungee cord. I stared for a moment, and finally spotted the silken strand that held him in place, barely six inches from my foot. The top corner disappeared under the near edge of my desk. I waited for one of the light brown wolf spiders who prowl my office like half-dollar-sized versions of their forest-dwelling namesakes to come running out of hiding. I knew it would move like an eight-legged puppy in a clumsy rush of legs, seemingly oozing invertebrate elation at the prospect of another easy lunch. Instead, I noticed the slow extension of a long black leg, arching outward onto the strand, its movement so controlled and steady that the cricket could not feel its weight upon the sticky thread which held him fast. The next three legs followed, then the spider herself. She moved in the way a ballet dancer might, if she performed on tight ropes; lightly as a shadow on the wall. Indeed, dressed in oily black that stood out glaringly against the dull gray of the concrete floor, she seemed to, just like a shadow, lack depth. Only the bright red hourglass on her belly marked her as a living creature. For fifteen minutes she danced slowly downward towards the cricket, then finally embraced the terrified creature for a brief kiss, before retreating back into the darkness under my desk, as if overcome by sudden shyness. The cricket danced around for a minute or so, let out a weak warbling chirrup, like a fiddler with a sudden arm cramp, and then fell still. Two long ballerina legs snaked out and with surprising strength drew the cricket upwards. In its place a silken cocoon was soon hung, and I could see two antennae sticking out, still waving slowly. I swung around in my chair to face my desk again. I didn’t even notice at the time that my feet had cut straight through her web. Fascination I still felt, perhaps, but not fear. The only time I think about her now is when her children swarm up the desk, and bite my knuckles as I try to work. Then I think about tipping up my desk and getting rid of her, but there is no thrill inherent in such a mundane hunt, and my mind soon turns back to more important matters of work. As with all dangers we live with, she is no more than an ordinary nuisance, or, at most, an alternative to a can of Raid. Sometimes, though, when I see a cricket racing for the door, I do not squish him; instead, I catch him as gently as I can, toss him into the silken palace of a black queen, and watch her dance. Beauty is inherent in life, because living is beautiful. It is also inherent in death, because it represents the passing of something unique, never to be repeated. That parts of us are the reflections of nature is true, and that they can be understood through looking at the world around us is true. Still, some things are wholly, completely, and without question unique to us. It is good that such is the case, because of all the things that are to be found in nature, there is no mercy, and even among the most intelligent of creatures, only humans have ever shown any sign of it. Indeed, it is not even universal among us, which should show what a new thing it is to the world. Nature, on the other hand, will kill the defenseless, the weak, or the genetically perfect, without caring. I learned this from a frog. Continuation: The Bullfrog |
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