The Milk Of Venus--19

Jan. 2, 2003

Type: discussion

19

The legend of Spider-girl cuts a wide swathe across
both urban and tribal mythologies. In fact, hers is
the only such story I know of; one that has both
survived and thrived in the shopping mall as well as
the sweatlodge.
Pop culture embraced Spider-girl as well, but,
uncomfortable at the time with the idea of a powerful
female, she was given a gender makeover, and the more
sinister aspects of her story (she was, after all,
modeled on a carnivorous arachnid) were jettisoned in
favor of a "good-samaritan-with-radioactive-powers"
motif.
The truth is, Spider-girl the universal archetype
stands as a more complex figure than American comic
books would have us believe. To the Jivaro and the
Navajo, she was both destructive seductress and
bountiful fertility; she roamed the outskirts of
villages, ensnaring unfaithful men and drinking their
souls, while also protecting the community's harvest
against pestilence. To the Crow and the Sioux, she
was both the famine that accompanied surges in
population and a sign of good fortune in times of war;
a warrior visited by Spider-girl the night before
battle was assured victory, being able to fight as if
he had eight arms and eight eyes.
One of the urban legends regarding Spider-girl
unfolds as follows:
At a club in the heated down-town of any
metropolitan city on any given weekend night, a young
man notices a stunning young woman lingering alone
along the walls. The lipstick this stunning young
woman wears is a panic red, a red that hangs sullen
and electric in the air behind her as she walks. He
approaches and offers to buy her a drink. The tone of
her lipstick squeezes something secret and tropical
from his conciousness.
After persuading her to come home with him at the end
of the night, the potential lovers leave the club and
head for the young man's apartment. He drives with the
top down, the city a charcoal smudge glittering and
tunneling around them. She sits quietly in his
peripheral vision (the quiet ones have always turned
him on), and at times he would swear he sees threads
of smoke billow from her, twisting behind the car and
disappearing into the rush of the city behind them.
When they arrive at the young man's apartment, things
become hazy and confused. The woman moves quickly, too
quickly for the young man, and it seems to him that
everything in the apartment is shifting. Soon the
young man loses conciousness, and falls into a
restless sleep.
The next morning, quite late, he opens his eyes. At
first his bedroom seems buried in swathes of
translucent smoke; he can see the angles of the
dresser in front of him, but they've softened, faded:
the whole apartment has been submerged in what seems
to be an Impressionist painting. Upon closer
inspection (and some waning of the dry blue hangover
wracking his cells), the young man comes to the
realization that not only is his lovely partner of the
night before missing, but it would also seem that his
apartment has been coated in what looks suspiciously
like the orphan threads of cotton balls. His
furniture fairly glistens under a film of soft fluff;
his prize collection of CDs sticks together, tied up
in cloud-stuff. And if that weren't enough, cutting
through the near-erasure, an incredibly, nauseously
lurid lipstick spells cryptic phrases on his
steamed-up bathroom mirror: "3-3-3-3-3-3" and, below
it, "STOP ON RED".
Not long after this our young man stops at a gas
station on his way to yet another club. The mystery of
the young woman who left his apartment a cloudy
shambles has subsided; all that remains of it is a
drive to find more young women, bring them back home,
wake up with them: the ritual in its proper form. In
the gas station, paying for his fuel, the young man
buys three candy bars, three packs of cigarettes and
three packages of condoms; just before he concludes
his transaction, he pauses, decides to test his luck;
with an odd dollar he plays the lottery,rattling off a
number he barely thinks of. The clerk is sullen, and
greasy.
He has no luck at the club. None of the girls
swimming in lasers and strobes and smoke-machine
mystery tug him anywhere above his belt. They pull
weakly; they smell too sweet. He's back in his car by
a quarter to eleven.
The DJ sounds far too frenetic for our young man's
morose mood, but he listens anyway, hoping the jolt of
an electrified voice will shock his doldrums away.
There's almost no traffic; with the windows down, he
believes he can hear both the DJ and the sound of the
car echoing against the biildings. The DJ reads the
lottery numbers, and for a minute it doesn't register.
He approaches the intersection.
"Holy SHIT!" He can't think to punch the brake.
Squeal. Thud. Crack.

2002/12/18 10:54:09–2003/01/02 07:44:56

=====

Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/

__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com