This incarnation, I’m living a spider’s life in a corner of her ceiling where she never looks. Because she is too busy enlightening herself she wouldn’t kill me if she were instructed by the Buddha to rid her rooms of anything with eight legs. Eight the figure symbolically similar to mathematical infinity. I’ll be the first to notice her crown graying. In the space of this room I represent the brilliant idea she is waiting to be bitten by. The salt and oil of her skin remains on my legs where I walked her in the night. She was dreaming of a daily practice something like mine, with spinners and a web of truth. Her waking mind has no ability to drop in where her body pretzels. She’s required to dangle and back down the karmic wheel.
