Spiders are mesmerizing creatures. When you spot one it’s like they’ve manifested out of the void, from a parallel universe.
You feel their menacing presence before you see them.
Only thing worse than the spider you can see, is a spider that disappears.
Living in Australia, I’m always slightly on alert. I’m especially leery of park benches and picnic tables. In Vancouver I was painfully bit by a brown recluse and can’t seem to turn off my apprehensions. The bite left a welt that lasted a year and scars that took five years to fade. Unlike the theory of bible thumpin’ snake handlers, you don’t build up any kind of immunity to a spider bite.
From these pics, one might also assume I must live in an old, cobwebby post-war bungalow hidden from the road in a thicket of deep brush in a far off suburb or rural outback area.
Actually, I don’t.
Sorry to break it to ya. I live high up, in the heart of downtown Perth in an austere, modern new concrete building.
And for the second year running – at exactly the same time of the year – the spiders emerged. And so did I. With my camera and a long-range lens.
Within the last week of October, and the first week of November, if I do recall. Just at the final turn of spring into summer; when that very first burst, that visceral wall of heat hits the air. In the back of my mind, I half expected to come home from eight weeks travels to a patio ensconced in webs and critters. Thankfully, I did not. I put a barrier of Mortiem down and returned with peace of mind. That stuff actually works.
All of these “neighbours” were photographed on my very patio in the week before I left. I’ve meant to share this for a while.
Who are they?