Cobwebs and Gossamer

“Spiders evidently as surprised by the weather as the rest of us: their webs were still everywhere - little silken laundry lines with perfect snowflakes hung out in rows to dry.”

                                                                             - Leslie Land, The 3000-Mile Garden

“There are spiders living comfortably in my house while the wind howls outside. They aren't bothering anybody. If I were a fly, I'd have second thoughts, but I'm not, so I don't.”

                                                       - Richard Brautigan, The Tokyo-Montana Express

           

My place is a place of hundreds of spiders in the fall. The fall is mating season and, in an effort to expand their territory, webs and their resident spider inhabitants abound in spaces common and uncommon – trees, bushes, corners, walls, crannies, chinks, and crevasses. Their webs are organic feats of astonishment. It is a rare morning that I can move from the front door to the driveway without becoming draped in spider webs – the fibres sticky in my hair, my face enswathed in fine, tickling filaments. I stand in either reverence or consternation.

The spiders hang in pugilistic splendor in the middle of the webs, staring me down with a nervy confidence, sometimes running at me up a long line of silk like a dog at a stranger in the yard.  She exhibits a bantam fearlessness, a dauntless valor.

I never mean to harm them, though I am not above a bit of teasing. I will sometimes give the web a slight tab, sending the fractious arachnid off in an indignant stomp to the middle of the web, where it sits and glowers, its legs curled up under it.  It is not afraid of me. More offended and outraged.

My favourites are the cat-faced spiders.  Their bodies look like the faces of cats, complete with pointed ears, eyes, and whiskers. They are quite large, and totally harmless. Another is the Daddy-Long-Legs spider. I love how his bulbous body hangs from his legs like a hammock. His incongruous body is like the bizarreness of a tortoise – ludicrous but graceful, peculiar but poignant.

The spiders will not be in my place long – once the eggs are laid, they will die. Their webs will gather dust and debris over the course of the winter and, in the spring, the egg sacs will explode. Tiny, Lilliputian spiders will mob down the indestructible silk tracings created by their mothers and they will troop out to the garden to begin their own predator lives in their macro spider world.

But, for now, they are very much in my world and in my place.  We share a diffident respect.

Stumps

“Fancy cutting down all those beautiful trees...to make pulp for those bloody newspapers, and calling it civilisation. - Winston Churchill, remarking to his son during a visit to Canada in 1929”

-              John Vaillant, The Golden Spruce: A True Story of Myth, Madness, and Greed

“But the trees seemed to know me. They whispered among themselves and beckoned me nearer. And looking around, I noticed the other small trees and wild plants and grasses had sprung up under the protection of the trees we had placed there.

The trees had multiplied! They were moving. In one small corner of the world, Grandfather's dream was coming true and the trees were moving again.”

                                                         - Ruskin Bond, Rusty, the Boy from the Hills

 “Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.”

                                                       - Khalil Gibran, Sand and Foam

My place is a place of legions of trees. It once was old growth forest, then new growth forest. Houses have been built with a mind to keeping trees standing – with exceptions. More and more exceptions.

Old, august trees still stand – bearded with moss and pocked with lichen. Younger trees grasp at clouds, urging themselves up to similar prominence.

But it is the stumps that make me sad. I have come across stumps with a hundred or more rings. The stumps of trees that felt they would stand forever. I have seen stumps that lovingly nurse new seedlings, and small toads, and multitudes of centipedes. The saddest stumps of all are those of chopped trees. I can bear the ragged tears and gnawed bark of felled trees – their battle with furious winds or blustering storms a foolhardy but lion-hearted one. Their heroic tales remain in the mulched litter at their rooted feet. They lived well and furiously.

But chopped trees meet a repugnant and brutal death. Their exposed stumps look like skinned carcasses, their ringed lives exposed and naked. The remaining stump is antiseptic and burnished – such that it cannot nurse anything else to life. How sad that is, that we do that to trees.

I wish, instead, that we humans were like the father of a character in a book by Jennifer duBois (A Partial History of Lost Causes), who’d “clap for trees he thought were doing a good job of exploding into red during the fall”.  We would clap – and warble and exalt, as we sat upon a stump in the forest.

Lullabies by Trains by Night

“I would like to visit the factory that makes train horns, and ask them how they are able to arrive at that chord of eternal mournfulness. Is it deliberately sad? Are the horns saying, Be careful, stay away from this train or it will run you over and then people will grieve, and their grief will be as the inconsolable wail of this horn through the night? The out-of-tuneness of the triad is part of its beauty.”   - Nicholson Baker, A Box of Matches

Six express tracks and twelve locals pass through Palimpsest. The six Greater Lines are: Stylus, Sgraffito, Decretal, Foolscap, Bookhand, and Missal. Collectively, in the prayers of those gathered prostrate in the brass turnstiles of its hidden, voluptuous shrines, these are referred to as the Marginalia Line. They do not run on time: rather, the commuters of Palimpsest have learned their habits, the times of day and night when they prefer to eat and drink, their mating seasons, their gathering places. In days of old, great safaris were held to catch the great trains in their inexorable passage from place to place, and women grappled with them with hooks and tridents in order to arrive punctually at a desk in the depth, of the city.

As if to impress a distracted parent on their birthday, the folk of Palimpsest built great edifices where the trains liked to congregate to drink oil from the earth and exchange gossip. They laid black track along the carriages’ migratory patterns. Trains are creatures of routine, though they are also peevish and curmudgeonly. Thus the transit system of Palimpsest was raised up around the huffing behemoths that traversed its heart, and the trains have not yet expressed displeasure.

To ride them is still an exercise in hunterly passion and exactitude, for they are unpredictable, and must be observed for many weeks before patterns can be discerned. The sport of commuting is attempted by only the bravest and the wildest of Palimpsest. Many have achieved such a level of aptitude that they are able to catch a train more mornings than they do not.

The wise arrive early with a neat coil of hooked rope at their waist, so that if a train is in a very great hurry, they may catch it still, and ride behind on the pauper’s terrace with the rest of those who were not favored, or fast enough, or precise in their calculations. Woe betide them in the infrequent mating seasons! No train may be asked to make its regular stops when she is in heat! A man was once caught on board when an express caught the scent of a local. The poor banker was released to a platform only eight months later, when the two white leviathans had relinquished each other with regret and tears.”

  - Catherynne M. Valente, Palimpset

My place is a place of trains. At a short distance from my home, the largest marshalling train yard in British Columbia spreads its breadth across 68 tracks. Grain arrives, coal leaves, spilled sulphur paints the tracks a garish dandelion yellow.  Its 360-acre expanse did not suffer noticeably from the First World War recession, nor the fire of 1920 which destroyed the downtown of our small town, nor the flood of 1921 which flooded half the city and produced a mammoth log jam that pulled down two bridges. At one time, in the 1930’s, these trains carried silk from far destinations to far destinations; silk spun in the making of cocoons of evolution, and slipped lovingly through the fingers of grand ladies. It seems that the steadfast history and grit of the trains here is as perpetual and persistent as the repetitive clickedty-clack sound of metal wheels on metal tracks.

 Clickedty-clack. Clickedty-clack.

Recently, relatives visited from the Interior. We sat on the back deck in the soft, summer air. At one point, the deck shook and an emphatic bang made the crows in the tree flash up, circle, and flutter back to their perches. We didn’t notice the tumult or the shudder, but our guests were alarmed. The rumbles, thuds, booms, claps, and clashes resounded throughout the afternoon. Interspersed with this orchestration were the plaintiveness, howling, or trumpeting of train whistles.

As I sat and made polite conversation amidst the bedlam of train, I became hyper-sensitive to the fact that, to someone unused to living near trains, these noises would seem clamorous, raucous, even deafening. But we don’t notice them anymore. Instead, these cannonades and trills are part of the fabric of the soundscape in which we live. The turbulence of train cars being shunted from track to track, the boisterousness of trains arriving to and leaving from the yard, carrying the wealth and treasures of nations and peoples, is exciting. Trains play in train yards like children in a playground – without inhibition, negligent of their glad-full noise. 
We have learned the language of trains. Whistles and horns – babble, wailing, and lamentation. The sonance of communication. One long – I am approaching you. Three short – I am backing up. Multiple short – I am in trouble! Happy New Year, Happy Canada Day. Even one that means good night.


 Good night, train.

Clothesline Choreography

“There, in front of us, where a broken row of houses stood between us and the harbor, and where the eye encountered all sorts of stratagems, such as pale-blue and pink underwear cakewalking on a clothesline . . .it was most satisfying to make out among the jumbled angles of roofs and walls, a splendid ship’s funnel, showing from behing the clothesline as something in a scrambled picture – Find What the Sailor Has Hidden – that the finder cannot un-see once it has been seen. A brilliant, and moving, mixture of perception and reality”.         

                        - Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory

My place is a place of clotheslines. Which is exceptional, nowadays. When I was a child, I played amongst the ballooning sheets and pillow cases, imagining myself an explorer in caves of snow and ice; or as a princess in a swirl of ball-gown taffeta. When my own children were small they did the same thing.  Spirited games of tag sometimes resulted in collapsed lines, the clothes in sodden heaps like languished mannequins.

When I lived, for a while, in the international housing complex of an American university, the joy of the clothesline was the joy of colour; of movement; of elegance. In a splayed, green pasture row upon row of clotheslines creaked in the wind, bedecked with billows of yards of colourful sari or turban cloths. African-patterned dresses, pants, and tunics capered alongside. Children screeched and laughed as they dove into the damp drapes of fabric, and babies lay on rugs under the clothesline, the sun-dotted sway of sheets sending them off to sleep.

The first community we lived in on arrival back in Canada did not allow clotheslines. Clotheslines were out-lawed by by-laws. The smell of over-dried clothes puffed from dryer vents, but not a single sock nor bra besmirched the piousness of barren back yards.  I recall that as a child in England poverty-ridden tenements boasted lines of laundry that draped across the street from kitchen window to kitchen window. I imagine that it is that sort of image, in part, that creates the property value lowering connotation of clotheslines. ‘Airing your laundry’ is considered in bad taste. In that regard, I suppose that draping my t-shirts to dry over blueberry bushes or draping old dungarees over the back of wicker garden chairs could be perceived as a form of anarchism, or just low wages.

But my place does not have such silly by-laws. A breezy summer’s day is an invitation to allow one’s raimnants to flirt with the wind.  I have heard of something called Project Laundry, which includes a collection of clothesline art and poems and essays that praise the joys of using a clothesline. Apparently, there are even clothesline consciousness-raising parties, and there is actually a National Hanging Out Day in the United States on April 19^th and a lobby to have weather-persons give drying forecasts each day. 

I would love to see, again, pastures of colour and peek-a-boo children in the sheets; the ache of textile to free itself from clothes pegs and pins and dance a mad, dervish tarantella with the wind.