Dispatches from the Fury Road: Spyder Spyder Burning Bright...

If you want to live and thrive, let the spider run alive.

So goes the Scottish and Irish proverb first recorded in the late 1900s. I thought of this adage often after finding a spider living in the corner of my bedroom, silent and still. At this age I definitively want to live and thrive so the spider’s life was safe, although I’d prefer the spider didn’t do any of that “scary running on walls” shit. I hoped it would saunter out of my home and find new a web it could call its own. Since it appeared intent on staying at my place, I vowed we’d live together in perfect harmony.

Many years ago an Irishwoman shared another proverb with me: when you kill a spider, you destroy a part of your imagination. This had quite an effect on me even though I am not superstitious by nature. The closest I come to any superstition is that I have to put my left shoe on before my right. I don’t know what would happen if I did it the other way. Maybe a car would drive off a cliff in Dover or a plague of locusts would descend and ruin my washing. Most probably I’d just feel discombobulated, when I stood up I’d immediately walk into a wall.

In my youth I was an arsehole to insects and considered myself the bogeyman of all creatures terrifying and small. While I would never hurt an animal, my morals for itsy bitsy things overwhelmed me. Often I would stick a hose in an ant hill and turn it on suddenly, watching the dirt explode with gushing water. Those poor ants. They’d just be going about their business when suddenly a flood would hit without any warning from the weather forecast. “They said it was going to be sunny all week!”

I whacked flying insects out of the sky with my miniature pool stick, pretending I was Monkey wielding my magic staff before Tripitaka could pull me into line. I hunted cockroaches on warm summer evenings with my cricket bat, whacking them for six into the bushes. I stomped my feet near cicadas to stop their singing. I would gather up slaters from their old wooden abodes and inflict ghastly deeds on their unsuspecting lives. I was a cruel and capricious God with no empathy for anything that lived in that tiny realm.

Spiders were the main focus of my adolescent ire.

This of course came from a place of fear. The alien way they would scuttle across the wall scared the bejeezus out of me and their hairy legs made my skin ripple with a life of its own. As a youngster they were firmly entrenched in my top three fears along with clowns and my uncle playing country and western music on car stereo. Yet as I grew older I concluded this fear of spiders should be left behind. It was time to be an adult and by golly, by jingo, by crikey, I was going to be a proper and honest-to-goodness man. Besides, spiders have every right to life that I have, and if I wouldn’t hurt an animal, then insect rights are a cause I should adhere to as well.

Over time I changed my ways and in turn, became a better person. I have even saved a lot of spiders by catching them in a glass or container, and then taking them outside to live a happy life. Every time I manage to remove a spider from my home, I conclude the adventure by patting myself on the back like I’ve managed to achieve something genuinely impressive like climb Mount Everest or only eat half a packet of chips.

So when I saw this little hairy spider in my bedroom, with its arse plonked right on the cornice, I’d be lying if pretended my heart didn’t skip a beat. I also remembered I am 50-year-old man and I am certain 50-year-old men don’t yelp with surprise when they see a small spider. After I gathered my wits, I decided to strike a deal. I walked over to the spider and declared:

“You stay right there, I’ll stay right here, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

At first there were no problems with this new arrangement. Sure, I woke up regularly in the middle of the night, would grope for the lamp, turn on the light and check to see the spider was still where it was meant to be. I would then get out of bed and shuffle to the toilet, convincing myself that’s the real reason I woke up. I’d then return to bed and sleep soundly until the morning when I’d once again wake and immediately check that the spider hadn’t moved.

At the beginning of the second week I was talking to a friend, bragging about how I was a real man now living with a spider and everything was just tickety-boo. I was living, I was thriving and my imagination was intact. My friend asked if it had moved at all and I flippantly replied that it hadn’t. I was ready to move onto other important topics like “Should I bother with Andor if I don’t give a fuck about Star Wars?” or “Does Gluten free dough allow me to enjoy pizza without putting on weight?” when my friend casually stated, “It probably has an egg on it”.

Jesus shit!

Why would anyone say this? I instantly recalled stepping on a spider as a teenager and watching hundreds of baby spiders escape from under my good. The spider must have had an egg that I had failed to see. I used so much fly spray that day I burned away at least 10% more of the ozone layer. I had visions of saying goodnight to my spider and then in the middle of the night the egg opening and then being devoured by thousands of baby spiders ravenous for human blood. As Jordan Peele would say, “Nope!”

Nope, nope, nope, a thousand times, nope.

I decided it was time for my spider pal to go. My plan was simple: herd the spider into a container and then place it outside where it could find a nice outdoor spot to build a web and raise its children. The only problem was that the spider was sitting in that awkward part where the ceiling meets the wall. I was going to have to stand on my bed, nudge it into place, hold my nerve and get it into the container before slamming the lid on so I could take it outside.

I’ve done this enough times to know that the plan is foolproof.

I also know that deep down, I am indeed a fool.

So as back up, I brought my vacuum cleaner in with me. If my plan went pear-shaped and I accidentally burst a secret egg, I’d hoover all the spiders up and that would be the end of the story. I must stress this isn’t the outcome I wanted. I wanted to get that spider outside so it could live and I could thrive with my imagination intact. I felt confident that I was going to be able to pull this off. I’m a proper mature man. All I had to do was be careful, stay vigilant and focus on the moment.

I climbed on top of my bed with my container and lid in hand. At my feet I placed the vacuum nozzle, just in case it was needed. I leaned over towards the spider and couldn’t see an egg but who knew if maybe it was underneath? I was being careful because I didn’t want to scare the spider. It hadn’t done anything wrong by me and I wanted to reciprocate that sense of fair play. All it had done was sit in the one place in my bedroom for nearly three weeks, not moving, minding its own business. I respected that and hoped the spider respected me. I gently placed the container near the spider and just as I began to move the lid into place….

…it moved, I panicked, picked up the vacuum nozzle and sucked it deep down into the bowels of dusty hell.

And if that fucks my imagination, whatareyagonnado?

I could probably use a little less anyway.

Justin Hamilton

Surry Hills

November 2022