Fuck. Spiders.

This post will not include any spider pictures as there is no way I'll ever actually go into Google, type in "spider" and then actually browse through a gallery of pictures to choose the best looking ones for this blog...

I don't like spiders.

I don't like 'em, because I'm shit scared of them.

I don't like 'em, because according to social construct (and to myself) I'm too old to be jumping away like a startled amphetamine driven rabbit at the sight of a bug that, albeit disgusting, cannot cause me any harm.

I don't like 'em, because those 8 legged motherfuckers are everywhere.

I don't like 'em, because I'm afraid...

This post can go many ways from here. It can dig deep into the modern human's psychological mind stuff - why do we not like things were afraid of? Why are we afraid of creepy crawlies? Are the things we do not like about ourselves, something we fear because of the way society is built? But fuck that existential shit, this post is about how fucking horrible spiders are.

That shit has 8 legs that are either as thin as my patience for homophobes or as thick as homophobes. For those unfamiliar with my views on homophobes - a different analogy. Them legs either creepy as shit cuz the thing is kinda like a tall skinny dude, but unmistakeably evil, or them legs are like of a stereotypical Russian in the eyes of western society - big, dangerous, hairy. Each one of those legs moves in a beautiful flowing motion, perfectly synchronized with the other 7, and that movement looks creepy as shit. And it's fast, but it is no way faster than the speed of shit being deposited into my pants upon visual contact.

Then there's the body. It can be so tiny that fucker looks like its just legs converging into a single point. Or... it can be as big as a motherfucking puppy. That thing sometimes has different parts, each creepier than the other. It can have more body hair than me (and trust me I have enough body hair for this analogy to make sense). It can have like a gazillion hell eyes on its front that just peer into your soul and you know if you could fucking see into that things soul (if it had a bloody soul) you'd see only one thing:

You'd see snickering. It'd mock you. It'd be like "Hello cunt. I am completely harmless, I can cause zero damage via physical force to you, but you know what... you still my bitch." And you are! You know it! If you're scared of spiders like I am, and I know many who are, you can be the toughest craziest motherfucker out there and you still gonna be this spider's bitch at least for a second before you kill it with your shoe or a sledgehammer (whichever you have at hand)...

Okay, that's all nice, but Ivo why are you telling us all this? Because Scotland is awesome, I have only seen like 5 spiders in total for a month, with one little exception when I literally saw the stuff of nightmares and now I'll tell you about it.

On my way to work one day I saw a big ass tree that looked very pretty. It was on the left side of the only road that leads through a forest to the house I work at. The light was shining through the branches and the leaves, slightly distorted bythe white fruit on the branches. And then I close in to take a  picture, cuz that tree was pretty, when I saw there was no such thing as white fruit on that tree. That was spider webs... Spider webs that formed big ass pouches... Pouches that were all around them tree branches... Pouches that were filled with thousands of spiders probably...

I walked away scared as shit. I said fuck about a million times on my way to the house. I looked around constantly like paranoid (because I was acting paranoid).

One tree, which I ran away from ain't that bad. I mean yeah it's nightmarish, but it ain't THAT bad... Only it wasn't one tree...

The next day I saw 4 more, for a total of 5 trees... And then the next day I saw maybe 10 trees just like that one varying in sizes and shit, but this time I had noticed that some of the old trees no longer had the pouches... Those fuckers must've popped open as there was no visible signs of someone smart coming in with a flame-thrower to clear them up.

And then one day, as I walked on that forest road, surrounded by spider infested trees I saw it. One of the trees still had it's pouches, only not all of them were white... The fuckers were starting to come out. There were so many. If they were bigger it would literally be just like in some of my nightmares. There were black patches of them fuckers on that tree and I knew I'm gonna die. I wasn't really gonna die, but I knew I was...

I ran full speed away from that.

Fuck. Spiders.

Pete The Spider

The fire cracks quieter and quieter as the piece of wood inside burns out. When it's just embers I go to the basket with the pinecone in front of it and pick up a new one. Open the glass door to the fireplace and position the new log on top of the burning embers. Close the door, slide the thing that opens up the air vents and make sure the wood catches fire. When it does, I slide the air vents back and get my ass back on the couch. 30 minutes left.

In 30 minutes I have to slowly make my way to the room in which Ben rests and check if he's asleep. If he's sleeping peacefully, I get my ass back on the couch for another hour, if not I turn him over from his left side to his back so he's comfortable.

Ben has a rare muscle degenerative disease and he's stuck to a wheelchair and basically can't move by himself properly. He needs someone to care for him and 2 nights a week that's my job.

I arrive at 20:00, make his bed, do whatever Ben needs done in the next 2 hours, like make him a cup of tea, help him with his weather station, or just chill and talk. Then around 22:00 I assist him with his medication, brush his teeth, wash his face and hands, prepare whatever clothes he wants for the day after, help him with the toilet and get him to bed.

Everything has to be done in a specific way. Just like with the fire there's a special procedure. A specific way to put the electric toothbrush in his hand and help him use it. A specific way to wash his hands. A specific way to prepare the water with which he drinks his pills. A specific way for... Everything.

And after he's asleep it's just me and Pete. Pete is a spider.

Maybe it's Just Me

There are very few deprived of emotion. For the rest, there is an abundance to choose from: love, hate, disgust, interest, abhorrence, fascination, dislike, excitement, amazement, pain, comfort, annoyance, sympathy and so many others. But we must also not forget that each one of those emotions and feelings have different magnitudes.

You can love your child and you can love chocolate.
You can hate stubbing your toe and you can hate someone who has hurt your close ones.
You can be in pain from a scratch or you can have your leg chopped off...

The thing is when we feel something we usually manage to trace it back to a basic emotion of sorts, at the very least we know whether we like it or not. However today I felt something new, something that I am incapable of putting into words and yet I'll try because I know that I must.

It's like an emotion in a dream. You think it's real, yet deep inside question its actuality. It confuses your being with its unfamiliarity.

I believe it is a feeling you get that requires someone special to you in a way different from any other person. And I don't mean regular special, I mean that sometimes you will look at this person and your mind will vibrate with the knowledge that the universe has altered space and time at some point to ensure their creation. You look at this person and sometimes you question either their humanity or your own, because you can't believe them to be a person just like you. Yet they are...

I'm not good enough of a writer to describe it. Were I painter, there'd not be enough colours to portray it. Were I a musician i would need so much more than sheet music and instrument...

And yet it is an emotion that yearns to be sang... It yearns to be painted... It yearns to be played... It yearns to be put into a mathematical formula... Anything as long as it can be represented... Which is why I am still writing.

And some of you will say it's love, but love is too wild, too passionate, too real and unmistakable. Love is scary and fleeting, real and old, but familiar... This was all in a single moment that echoed through my being, this was ultimate.

You know what maybe it's what you feel when you look so deep into someone's eyes you actually see their soul.

Maybe it's what Van Gogh felt as he looked at the sky and drew the dance of the stars in his Starry Night.

Maybe it's what Buddha felt when he achieved Nirvana.

Maybe it's what a person feels the moment he ODs on drugs.

Maybe it's what a person feels when they manage to look into the soul of the universe.

Maybe it's just me.