From Whence these Benevolent Spiders?

Once in a while, his thoughts were more fluid than usual. What exactly that meant, he did not know, but images in his head were not finite. Everything he imagined could become anything else. Thoughts of life became thoughts of death in one quick sweep. Words came and went without need for attention. He imagined that these thoughts functioned much like the ones he encountered in his dreams, but sometimes he could shape them. But then, he thought, perhaps they shaped him.

That morning, as so often happened at that time of day, he had been visited by the image of something mythical. He had seen a white spider, almost glowing, and in no way frightful. Its presence was not intimidating, yet hinted at belonging to something of great power. He had been reading Irish fairy stories in preparation for a narrative and wondered whether the white, benevolent spiders were really fairies in disguise. His analytical mind told him, why not? They are fallen angels anyway.

He did not want to lose their scent. They floated about him in the same way that electric jellyfish might in the darker reaches of the ocean. This was an image he wished to preserve. One that he wished he could collect. Was that why artists painted, photographers took pictures and filmmakers made them?

We are archivists, he thought. We collect visions. Where they came from, he did not know. Perhaps they came from the same realm as his talking ducks, but what of the visions of others? Did we share that world?

At that moment, he knew that he was being visited by an old familiar friend who awoke in him a burning desire to create, by uttering only one word. "Speak," the stranger said.

"Welcome, dear friend," he replied, "perhaps one day you will tell me your name."

Degrees of Anonymity

Few knew him. No, many knew him, but within certain parametres. How many people really knew him and how many people knew of him. In the same way, how many people did he truly know? He considered his internet social networks, the numbers on his mobile phone, the wild scribbles of notes he took in his various notebooks, all of which contained messages, bits of information, numbers and descriptions that helped him to to remember others and, perhaps, who they were. But he could not say. How much do we really know about other people and to what degree do we remain anonymous?

He remembered reading about the theories of Marc Auge and his supermodernity, in which anonymity and identity merge in public spaces. Cyberspace, though only theoretical space, could perhaps also be seen as public space. Interaction, in whatever form, may be considered a public endeavour. Suddenly, he felt more than modern and on this day he would even go as far as to say, supermodern. Why not? It was in his head anyway.

As he looked out of the window upon Dublin and its habits, he realised that he had not yet decided whether, to him, Dublin would be a man or a woman. He did not know whether Dublin would really know him, or whether he would really know Dublin. He suspected that one might occur at the same time as the other, for that is the nature of friendship. From experience, he knew that two souls never became friends until both gave something, just a hint, of what currents flowed beneath. Every soul carried many secrets, some small, some big, but all noteworthy.

What secrets would Dublin be willing to share with him? How many secrets did Dublin hold? How old was Dublin's soul and how old was his? The thought intimidated him, which made him retreat to fiction. Henry and Loretta were fractions of his soul that might depart from him one day, but how many fractions were contained in the soul of Dublin? Dubliners came and went, inhabiting, emigrating, living, dying, but their visits left imprints on Dublin's immortal soul. Would his fragments make him immortal? Only time would tell.

Remember to live, he thought.

News from Loretta

He decided that, like most women, Loretta wanted to be found. His wife had once told of her Irish great grandmother's rather intriguing philosophy, "a lady leaves no traces." The words held such a sense of mystery, much like a woman, he thought. A more active search for Loretta needed to be conducted.

Perhaps the problem was that Loretta's addressor still went by the name, ?. A most problematic scenario and, to him, an error no writer should make. A character does not take form without a name. Nobody does. Perhaps it was part of our ancient inheritance. In ancient Egypt, the general belief was that nothing existed without a name and that the one who named a thing was in total control of it. This thought suddenly struck a chord. He loved that feeling. Surely, there was no greater sense of achievement as when one comes to a meaningful realisation. He was convinced now more than ever that a writer's great pleasure was to play God. A writer, like any artist, imitates. Every scenario resonates in some way with reality. Even when a scenario does not necessarily depict anything realistic, it nevertheless imitates thought, feeling, action, inaction. A writer plays. A writer speaks without speaking, moves without moving, destroys without destroying, but a writer feels.

? needed a name and he had thought of one. He could not explain why certain names worked, but in this case, the name Henry did. It was short, yet carried much allure. Henry VIII, Oscar Wilde's Lord Harry Henry and countless French chefs were all called Henry. Henry would be the name of Loretta's addressor. And then, after many weeks of waiting, Loretta's letter arrived.

My Dearest Henry,

I apologise for my tardy response, but as you can imagine, my time has not been my own. A long drought was last night broken with the arrival of a monumental thunder storm. Though relief was to be felt by all, none of us slept a wink. The drought had very nearly transformed into a flood, but we managed to get to safety in the nick of time.

I do envy you your surroundings, but when I have a moment to collect my thoughts and assimilate the beauty of the desert plains and that of the approaching storm, I have to wonder whether you do not sometimes miss thunder and lightning. I feel as though they are so ingrained in our fibre that when we have not fraternised with them for a while, we grow sick with longing for them.

I sometimes fear that although we spoke of it a great deal, and I for the most part agreed with you, I am after all in love with this barren, exhaustive and utterly beautiful land. Though it is a tumultuous lover, I cannot entirely turn my back on it. Of course, I do not propose that desertion is what you have done. Not at all. In fact, I now realise that for you to love this place, you need distance from it. But I suspect that in some way, you will always be bound to it. I do not believe that we could truly undo what has been done.

Heavens, what a sombre tone! On to your crow. I so wish to see it in your new habitat. Please send me a picture upon improvement of your digital competence. You are absolutely right, a crow in decidedly crow-like surroundings, like the worlds we used to conjure, is a thrill I would find hard to describe, though neither of us ever cowered from a challenge of description.

Oh, Henry, if only one were able to live in multiple worlds at once, how much simpler life would be! I shall send news of my life and my future plans, but as I am sure you can imagine, duty calls.

I loved hearing from you.

Ever yours,

Lotte

He had always romanticised the idea of such friendships, which is perhaps the purpose of fiction and the world to which he so often retreated. Yet, life has taught him that such friendships are, for all their beauty and ideologies, short-lived. He wondered if Henry and Loretta would eventually grow apart.

Never Trust a Talking Duck

He had woken up that morning with the dream still fresh in his mind. Certain imagery featured in his dreams more often than others. Forests, rivers, islands, ancient structures and flight, which he dreamt of frequently as a child, but of which the occurrence had become more sporadic. His dreams had a tendency to verge on the fantastical, which unnerved him, but which he had great affection for. He despised realistic dreams intensely, feeling that they confused his reality.

That night marked the second dream he had had of a talking duck. In his dream, he had been trying to find his way out of a forest and so came upon a duck, who directed him, but whose directions ended up being false. As a result, his experience of talking ducks had been that they tended to be mischievous creatures, eager to be taken seriously by others yet deceptive in their promulgations. Could it be that talking ducks spoke in riddles? The prospect of riddling ducks, though fascinating, made him wonder whether, in dreams, one might ever converse with them effectively. He found his mind decidedly less agile in dreams, and so, less able to decipher the riddles of ducks.

As his mind drifted into consciousness, he realised that describing him as "a little strange" may not have been entirely inaccurate, although he found most people to be such. He imagined that most people desired to travel into the realms of their unconscious more often and at will. Many individuals did, he thought, though not without some help from their friends. To others, the prospect seemed impractical, because they associated it with a loss of control.

He knew that, to him, the life he left behind in all endeavours material was one that acted both centripetally and centrifugally on him, never wanting to let him go. Always, it wanted more, anxiously awaiting his return. He sometimes ventured there when he aught not to, when the world he found himself in now demanded everything. In times of loss, grief, sorrow and loneliness, he often went there, for in that world, everything seemed as it should be, perfectly proportioned.

Perhaps one day he might return, taking with him those he held most dear. Perhaps he might once again rule over endless landscapes of cypress trees, rivers and ancient structures, and over his minion of duplicitous ducks.