They like to eat insects; I prefer the meat of mammals. They creepy crawl around on eight legs; I've just got the two. Same goes for the eyes - they've got a bunch; me, not so many. They pop out of nowhere, presumably from dark, musty corners that the human eye immediately goes to the second they appear, but never so fast as to catch their entry; I'm parapathetic when it comes to sneaking up on anyone. They are incredibly disturbing to look at as they resemble what I imagine to be the amalgamation of all nightmares; I, while not altogether fetching, do not necessarily inspire the destruction of all courage and sanity if looked upon.
The things we do have in common?
We both lead, and enjoy, rather solitary lives. While I don't eat all my visitors the second they sticky grip to my front porch, nor do I starve without the company, I, like a spider, do not fare well in large crowds of people, and feel as out of place and anxious as a spider would feel in a group of spiders, the only difference being that all the spiders in that group of spiders would feel equally out of place, whereas in parties I have had the misfortune to attend, no one else seems to feel as out of place as I do and in fact most endeavor to engage me in conversation, much to the dismay of my misanthropism.
Perhaps these rare instances would have better results if I had a literal appetite for human flesh, but alas, I do not.
Besides an obvious abhorrence of company, we also share a love of craft, and as it has been proven in Pakistan, our crafting ability becomes most vivid when we fear for the current, depredated state of our lives.
I only really started crafting when I realized I wasn't participating in a stimulative, creative act; I wasn't producing anything, and in that absence I found myself stuck in a dead-end job, drowning in papers and people that I didn't care about. The moment I started making things with my hands was the moment I began to rise out of the dredge and muck of office work, and after a year I left it and never looked back.
I don't seriously think spiders spin their webs to escape the doldrums of living in corners and eating flies; in fact, I think they rather enjoy their daily activities. But perhaps there is some measure of workaday boredom to their primary functions. If you knock down a spider's web, out the spider comes to spin a new one. And the new web is rarely that different from the old, especially if it has been relegated to form over the bracket of a room. The most beautiful and lacy of webs are often found branching the void between close trees, but even they seem to follow the same circular algorithms.
But put under pressure, faced with annihilation and an uncertain future, spiders really can belly up to the bar.
After the massive flooding in parts of Pakistan last year, the spiders, who I assume were previously living on the ground or thereabouts, were driven to the trees, where they are now all living together, shrouded inside protective web cocoons of their own making.
Not only have these webs kept them safe from the rising waters, they have also proven to be incredibly effective in catching the mosquitoes that live along the banks of water, which has been helpful for both their food supply and for the people of Pakistan as there are less instances of malaria.
Besides all the wonderful benefits to humanity and arachnids, I don't think I've ever seen anything in nature so beautifully and delicately crafted, and under such dire circumstances.
I'd also like to add that those craft spiders are Pakistani, so we have that in common, too.
Click through the pictures to see more pictures of their handiwork.
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