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."