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.The tremulous song, the sound of the wilderness anxious, is loud.There is a spider above him.No no that is not, that is not a spider that great shape that cannot be, it is the size of a tree, a fat tree with branches splayed in perfect symmetry that cannot be but that is what it is, it is a spider, so much bigger than the biggest man.—Weaver.—Weaver.They say it.Their voices are beyond fear, quite stripped by awe.Weaver.The spiders that are not gods but are nearly, that are something so other, so much farther than men or xenian, than dæmon, than archon, that they are unthinkable, their power, their motives, their meanings as opaque as iron.Creatures who fight murder die and reconfigure everything for beauty, for the intricacy of the web that is the world they see, a concatenation of threads in impossible spiral symmetry.Songs about Weavers fill Judah’s head.Nonsense-fears for children—He promised me her hand in mine, / then smothered her in all his twine, / the Weaver swine—absurdities and pantomime foolery.Looking up at this thing glowing unlight or is it light over the rock edge he knows the songs for the atoms, the infinitely tiny specks of stupidity they are.The Weaver hangs in complex stillness.Body tarry black, a teardrop globe, a glintless head.Four long legs angled down to end in dagger-feet, four shorter up, as if in the centre of a web, hanging in the air.Ten, twelve feet long, and now, what, what is it, turning slowly, slightly, as if suspended, and the world seems snagged.Judah feels a tug as if the world is tethered by silks the Weaver is gathering as it turns.Judah makes a debased throat sound.It is dragged out of him by this Weaver’s unseen threads.It is a kind of unbidden worship.All along the slope the men and women of the railway stand seared by what they see, and some try to get away and some stupid few crawl closer as if to an altar but most, like Judah, only stand still and watch.—Don’t touch it, don’t fucking go near it, it’s a godsdamned Weaver, someone is saying, someone a long way below.The spider-thing turns.The rocks continue to sing, and now the Weaver joins them.Its voice comes out from under stones.Its voice is a shudder in dust.ONE AND ONE AND ONE AND TWO AND RED RED-BLACK RED-BLUE BLACK THROUGH HILLCUT WIRETRAWL AGASH AGASP AGAPE LEGATE AND CONSTRUCT MY TIES MY EYES CHILDER KINDER WHAT STONECUT AND DUSTDRUM YOU SOUND A SLOW ATRAP TRAPPING A RHYTHM IN TOOL AND STONE.Its voice becomes a bark in time, a beating that makes the little rocklets dance on the slope.EAT MUSIC EAT SOUND PUSH THE PULSE PULSILOGUM THE MAGIC.Thoughts and the textures of things are snared and pulled in to the Weaver.GRIND AND GROUND CARE AND UNCRUSH WHAT IS BEFORE UNCRUSH UNCRUSH YOUR NAME IS RAKAMADEVA ROCK MY DEVIL YOU FLINCH INCH ATWARD OF WHAT WILL BE YOU BUILD.And the Weaver pulls in all its arms and drops lightly unreeled from its turning point in the air still sucking in what light there is and bloating on it as if it is the only real thing and Judah and the ground he stands upon and the threadbare trees he clutches are all old images, sun-bleached, on which a vivid spider walks.The Weaver picks up its legs one by knifepoint one and treads at the edge of the ravine and it dances along it as the uncoloured women and men edge behind it and it turns its head in sly playful slide to stare at them with a constellation of eyes like black eggs.Each time it does the people who follow it freeze and haul back until it turns again and moves on and they follow it as if bound to.It slips over the rim of the cliff and they run to see the arachnid thing pick dainty as a high-shoed girl down the sheer.It runs, it begins to run, until its huge absurd shape careers downward and it is by the roots to the bridge, the girders that spit out from the rock halfway to earth, and the Weaver leaps out and without passing through intervening space is on the half-done stump of construction, and small in the distance it begins to spin, to turn cartwheel, becomes a rimless wheel and skitters the girders where in the day the Remade bridge-monkeys hang and build.AND BREAK AND BREAK.The Weaver’s voice comes as loud as if it were next to Judah.PUSH BRUSH THEY AWAIT WITH BREATHBAIT AND ADRIP FOR YOUR INTERVENTION DEVILS OF THE MOTION ELATION CITATION CITE THE SITE TOWER SIGH NIGH VEER STAR AND CLEAR YOU ARE YOU ARE FINE IN TIME YON OF THE PLAINS STEAM-MAN.And the Weaver is gone and the weak night light bleeds back into Judah’s eyes.The Weaver is gone and it takes many seconds of staring at the spider-shaped absence on the bridge until the men and women of the railroad turn away.Someone begins to cry.The next day a handful of men are dead.They stare up at their canvas or at the sky with eyes quite washed of all colour and with smiles as if of quiet pleasure.There is an old man long gone mad who has come quietly with the railroad for miles, sitting while the hammermen swing and the whores sell relief, a man become a mascot, become a piece of luck.After the Weaver he stands above the tunnel mouth and declaims in glossolalia and then in words.He says he is a prophet of the spider, and though they do not obey the commands he gives them the workers of the iron road watch him with hesitant respect.He walks among the forced idleness of the track-layers.He shouts at the tunnellers to put down their picks and go nude and run away north into the unknown places of the continent.He shouts at them to copulate with the spiders in the dust.They are all draped in threads from the Weaver’s spinnerets.They are knotted in a new configuration.—We saw a Weaver, Judah says.—Most people never see that.We saw a Weaver.The next day the women strike.—No, they say to the men who come to their tents, and who stare at them uncomprehending.The women stand together in a militia, holding what weapons they have.A picket of rags and petticoats.There are scores of them, determined and surprised by themselves.They turn away the hammermen, tunnel-men, gendarmes.The rebuffed gather.A counterdemonstration of surly lustful men.They mutter.Some go to masturbate behind rocks; some simply go.Many stay.The dust of the two gatherings rises as they face each other.The gendarmes come—they do not quite know what to do; the women are doing nothing but refusing, the men are only waiting.—No pay, Ann-Hari says, —no lay [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.The tremulous song, the sound of the wilderness anxious, is loud.There is a spider above him.No no that is not, that is not a spider that great shape that cannot be, it is the size of a tree, a fat tree with branches splayed in perfect symmetry that cannot be but that is what it is, it is a spider, so much bigger than the biggest man.—Weaver.—Weaver.They say it.Their voices are beyond fear, quite stripped by awe.Weaver.The spiders that are not gods but are nearly, that are something so other, so much farther than men or xenian, than dæmon, than archon, that they are unthinkable, their power, their motives, their meanings as opaque as iron.Creatures who fight murder die and reconfigure everything for beauty, for the intricacy of the web that is the world they see, a concatenation of threads in impossible spiral symmetry.Songs about Weavers fill Judah’s head.Nonsense-fears for children—He promised me her hand in mine, / then smothered her in all his twine, / the Weaver swine—absurdities and pantomime foolery.Looking up at this thing glowing unlight or is it light over the rock edge he knows the songs for the atoms, the infinitely tiny specks of stupidity they are.The Weaver hangs in complex stillness.Body tarry black, a teardrop globe, a glintless head.Four long legs angled down to end in dagger-feet, four shorter up, as if in the centre of a web, hanging in the air.Ten, twelve feet long, and now, what, what is it, turning slowly, slightly, as if suspended, and the world seems snagged.Judah feels a tug as if the world is tethered by silks the Weaver is gathering as it turns.Judah makes a debased throat sound.It is dragged out of him by this Weaver’s unseen threads.It is a kind of unbidden worship.All along the slope the men and women of the railway stand seared by what they see, and some try to get away and some stupid few crawl closer as if to an altar but most, like Judah, only stand still and watch.—Don’t touch it, don’t fucking go near it, it’s a godsdamned Weaver, someone is saying, someone a long way below.The spider-thing turns.The rocks continue to sing, and now the Weaver joins them.Its voice comes out from under stones.Its voice is a shudder in dust.ONE AND ONE AND ONE AND TWO AND RED RED-BLACK RED-BLUE BLACK THROUGH HILLCUT WIRETRAWL AGASH AGASP AGAPE LEGATE AND CONSTRUCT MY TIES MY EYES CHILDER KINDER WHAT STONECUT AND DUSTDRUM YOU SOUND A SLOW ATRAP TRAPPING A RHYTHM IN TOOL AND STONE.Its voice becomes a bark in time, a beating that makes the little rocklets dance on the slope.EAT MUSIC EAT SOUND PUSH THE PULSE PULSILOGUM THE MAGIC.Thoughts and the textures of things are snared and pulled in to the Weaver.GRIND AND GROUND CARE AND UNCRUSH WHAT IS BEFORE UNCRUSH UNCRUSH YOUR NAME IS RAKAMADEVA ROCK MY DEVIL YOU FLINCH INCH ATWARD OF WHAT WILL BE YOU BUILD.And the Weaver pulls in all its arms and drops lightly unreeled from its turning point in the air still sucking in what light there is and bloating on it as if it is the only real thing and Judah and the ground he stands upon and the threadbare trees he clutches are all old images, sun-bleached, on which a vivid spider walks.The Weaver picks up its legs one by knifepoint one and treads at the edge of the ravine and it dances along it as the uncoloured women and men edge behind it and it turns its head in sly playful slide to stare at them with a constellation of eyes like black eggs.Each time it does the people who follow it freeze and haul back until it turns again and moves on and they follow it as if bound to.It slips over the rim of the cliff and they run to see the arachnid thing pick dainty as a high-shoed girl down the sheer.It runs, it begins to run, until its huge absurd shape careers downward and it is by the roots to the bridge, the girders that spit out from the rock halfway to earth, and the Weaver leaps out and without passing through intervening space is on the half-done stump of construction, and small in the distance it begins to spin, to turn cartwheel, becomes a rimless wheel and skitters the girders where in the day the Remade bridge-monkeys hang and build.AND BREAK AND BREAK.The Weaver’s voice comes as loud as if it were next to Judah.PUSH BRUSH THEY AWAIT WITH BREATHBAIT AND ADRIP FOR YOUR INTERVENTION DEVILS OF THE MOTION ELATION CITATION CITE THE SITE TOWER SIGH NIGH VEER STAR AND CLEAR YOU ARE YOU ARE FINE IN TIME YON OF THE PLAINS STEAM-MAN.And the Weaver is gone and the weak night light bleeds back into Judah’s eyes.The Weaver is gone and it takes many seconds of staring at the spider-shaped absence on the bridge until the men and women of the railroad turn away.Someone begins to cry.The next day a handful of men are dead.They stare up at their canvas or at the sky with eyes quite washed of all colour and with smiles as if of quiet pleasure.There is an old man long gone mad who has come quietly with the railroad for miles, sitting while the hammermen swing and the whores sell relief, a man become a mascot, become a piece of luck.After the Weaver he stands above the tunnel mouth and declaims in glossolalia and then in words.He says he is a prophet of the spider, and though they do not obey the commands he gives them the workers of the iron road watch him with hesitant respect.He walks among the forced idleness of the track-layers.He shouts at the tunnellers to put down their picks and go nude and run away north into the unknown places of the continent.He shouts at them to copulate with the spiders in the dust.They are all draped in threads from the Weaver’s spinnerets.They are knotted in a new configuration.—We saw a Weaver, Judah says.—Most people never see that.We saw a Weaver.The next day the women strike.—No, they say to the men who come to their tents, and who stare at them uncomprehending.The women stand together in a militia, holding what weapons they have.A picket of rags and petticoats.There are scores of them, determined and surprised by themselves.They turn away the hammermen, tunnel-men, gendarmes.The rebuffed gather.A counterdemonstration of surly lustful men.They mutter.Some go to masturbate behind rocks; some simply go.Many stay.The dust of the two gatherings rises as they face each other.The gendarmes come—they do not quite know what to do; the women are doing nothing but refusing, the men are only waiting.—No pay, Ann-Hari says, —no lay [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]