[the alchemy of a spider web]

I could have gone back, like a doll
that does what she’s
told, but I’m not that
good or that brave or
that stupid.  And besides,
the moon was big full in
the middle of the day,
and secrets were waiting to unfold
and there was a black widow
in a thick sticky
web

                                    ~moi

I rented a space to make art.  It is a large open space in an old warehouse building.  Little tufts of grass creep in through the walls, and occasionally couples who have no fixed residence sleep in the parking lot.  They put their food on top of the white van so animals won’t get it.  It’s not so different from when I go backpacking, though the scenery is certainly lacking as is, I imagine, the sense of a home to return to.  I get out of my car, say good morning, and go into the old warehouse; the parking lot campers wish me a good day.  The woman has a sweet sing-songy voice.

Whatever it was the ancients were trying to evolve with alchemy, this is my closest approximation.  A driving belief in based in slim possibility and scant evidence that keeps me coming back, opening the door, following one illogical decision with another, investing in broader, more open ended definitions of safety and wisdom.  When I cross the threshold, I abandon my subscription to order and thriving.  It is a big open space where I can simply play, or be, or do nothing.  And when my ego, or inner critic, or whoever that is pipes up and asks me why we’re wasting money on this big space when we could really be doing something useful with my/our life, I have full permission to duct tape it’s mouth shut and put that heavy body in the old trunk that is my coffee table.  Then I can get to work…

There is a large table on wheels that my Buddhist carpenter buddy Rick and I built, and it is covered with an artist’s version of a scientific study.  There are leaves, and insects and wings splayed out as if waiting to be cataloged.  There is an old typewriter, and odds and ends of fabric, sticks, and oranges peels that have been hollowed out by squirrels.  And this is my life, and lately, I desire no other.  That strange calm that comes when we balance gently on the edges our own quirky weirdness.

One day, while sweeping, I saw a black widow resplendent on her fortified web.  She was lithe and sleek with the perfect red hourglass on her torso that left no room for doubt.  And I couldn’t kill her, even though it seemed a logical reaction.  I did wipe out the web while marveling at its sticky durability.  There is nothing flimsy or casual about a black widow’s web; like her perfect, dangerous body, the web requires recognition.

With nothing left to do but ponder her symbolism, I learned of spider web metaphors, linked especially to writing and artistic processes, to the slow and patient weaving of structure in dark places; and in the case of the widow, there is this extra calling to respect and explore what is dark and mysterious in a woman’s psyche.  Not your average coffee shop conversation.  Hence the need for the studio.