The Anatomy Of Melancholy

The screen door groans halfway throuh its swing as I open it, and above my head by the door frame I imagine hearing the ripping sound of spiderweb torn asunder.

Each night is the same; the spider builds in the evening and I rend in the night. Its constant duel of wits developing between the two of us. But I admire the tenacity of my foe.

I have seen the small black body dipping and rising, eight clever spindles twisting and drawing there in the space between the door and the screen, trailing the finest silk painstakingly and with serious intent. The shape of the web is a circular funnel of silver that reflects moonlight but looks dull grey in sunlight. Moths, mosquitoes, and mayflies attracted to the porch light in the evening end up as small grey shrouded husks discarded on the door jamb beyond the thresh-hold.

Something about a spider hidden in the door's corner feels like good luck.

Reminds me of the story of Robert The Bruce who re gained his reslove from looking at a spider re building its web.. but I have no kingdoms to conquer...


I stood on the porch until my bare feet tingled and my flesh felt chilled by the cool night air.
The dogs patrolled the corners of the lawn, noses to the ground and tails flagging high as they trotted. The grass bedewed shone in the light of the moon.

The vastness of the heavens stuns me; the spider web's intricacies intrigue me; the common elements of design despite the size and distance and the space between remains incomprehensibly mysterious.


Einstein said God is subtle. I believe him.