It was a nice night.  The sky was clear and the city was cooling off after the heat of the day.  Looking up from my book out the window I noticed a large spider floating right in front of me.  Her legs were working hard and after a brief pause she climbed back up another invisible thread to connect in the middle.

I watched her for awhile.  She wasn’t systematic, the way I expect spiders to be when creating their webs.  She was flighty, bouncing from working at the top to working at the bottom.  She’d lay a few lines here and there, then jump over to work on the more foundational lines that she had forgotten earlier.  She remind me, in fact, of myself.  Running from doing a few dishes, to writing a few lines, to folding half the clean clothes, and then off to another task.  The curse of a multi-tasker in an ever more distracting world.

I once read that workers in an office will only work on any one project for 11 minutes straight before being distracted by something else.  A pressing email, a phone call, the birthday celebration in the break room.  There is just no way to focus on one project for very long.  

Somehow, though this spider moved in unpredictable ways building her nest, she didn’t seem harried or confused.  Her movements were still graceful, purposeful, but erratic in an artistic way.  She was like a painter who spends a full day getting one tree perfect while the rest of the painting looks like stick figures.  Or a sculpture who obsesses over the shape of their subjects nose, and ignore the face.  Her web was her art, not just her source of food, or home for the night.  It was her creation.  Her little contribution to the beauty that is nature.

And the more I watch her work away at this part and that part the more I could swear I saw a bit of pride in her movements.  Maybe a swell of her chest, or a triumphant move of her legs.  She knew I was in awe of the thing she was creating.  And she was proud that someone noticed.

Finally, tearing my eyes away from the small web in front of me to the larger world beyond the window I started to worry.  Here this small spider was, working for hours on a one of a kind creation.  An expression of herself as a creature of the world.  And in a little while rain would come and wash the work away.  Or a strong wind would snap the threads holding her up.  A child could come back and, in an act of humanly selfish curiosity, smash this delicate net.  The idea filled me with a kind of despair.

I wondered, if this spider worked the same way I did, if she shared my same predilection for multi-tasking and creativity, did she also share my feelings on the destruction of creation?  Tomorrow morning would this spider feel the overwhelming depression of a destructive and inattentive world.  Would she have just as much trouble starting her day as I do?  Did she need to screw all her courage up with the rising of the sun just to convince herself to begin all over again?

And, more, did she look at me from the other side and feel the same need to reassure and protect me as I felt for her?

Is there hope for the webs we weave?

Lying unclothed.  Hot, humid night making me sticky and distracted.  The city warms and the stench of too many hot, humid, sticky people reeks from the asphalt.  I can hear, mopeds, talking, the clinking of glass.  Someone’s cellphone, miles away, ringing in my ear like a mosquito.  I can see, on the ceiling, the blinking light of the smoke detector.  It mocks me red.

Lying in the dark I am crawling out of my skin.  I need to be cool.  But the fan irritates me.  Every hair on my body bristles with the cool breeze.  I need to eat.  But the food sits next to the tempting blue pills.  Promising oblivious, medicated nights and groggy wasted mornings.

Rolling and rocking in the dark, trying to be still next to his sleeping form, but inside I feel nails.  Sharp clawing, pulling, raking against my insides.  Scratching through my stomach.  Yanking at my breasts.  My whole body is twisting itself, exorcist-like, around inside my skin.  

Lying in the dark, holding onto his grunt of recognition, the sound of him groaning as he pads, through the dark.  His arm heavy, thrown carelessly over my stomach. His hot palm pressed to my thigh.  His smell overwhelms, covers the city.  His breath is warm kisses over my ear.  Turn my head and it is dank and hot against my forehead.  The soft, absent-minded caress of his thumb, back and forth.

Lying in the dark.  Here is perfect.  Oh!  Here is comfort.  Here is where I long to dwell.

Please.  Please, let sleep come.

I find that as a woman, handshakes become more and more complicated.  I often envy men who can simply give a good firm shake and be done with it.  More do I envy the ease that they can keep their hands locked while they chat, seemingly unconcerned that a second hold too short or too long casts you from friendly female to dirty slut.

And then there is trying to judge if he’s going to hold your fingers, or kiss them.  Hug you, or simply squeeze your hand.  If I smile, am I flirting?  If I go thumb to thumb will I come off as too aggressive.  If I offer first do I look like a confident woman of the world…or a bumbling child imitating the rest of the grown-ups?  

Sometimes I think I should just kiss everyone I meet on the forehead and be done with it.  

However, as much as my anxiety goes up when the handshake comes, I often forget how weird it must be for the men.  

Late last night I found myself eating bacon in barbecue sauce in a small shop down from my apartment.  The shop was pretty empty and most people were asleep in their beds.  Except for Tony and his student, Mr. Kim.  Tony is from California.  Mr. Kim works for a dog food company.  Tony was drunk, friendly, and obnoxious.  Mr. Kim was handsome, quiet and shy.  

Upon meeting there were handshakes all around.  My name, his name, his name, my name.  Tony pulled Mr. Kim up to us and said “Here, shake her hand, shake her hand” in the same tone one tells a reluctant child to give Aunty Lipstick a big smooch.  I was disturbed both by the tone Tony used and the idea that in this scenario I’m Aunty Lipstick.  

Mr. Kim shook my hand.  They left.  They came back.

Mr. Kim shook my hand.  Again.  This time without prompting.  While Tony and the boyfriend chatted in English Mr. Kim and I exhausted our mutual language skills.  I said “Annyeong Haseyo”.  He said “Nice to meet you.”  Then we sorta stood there.  

Tony said “Shake her hand, shake her hand!”  Mr. Kim and I looked at each other like we were gearing up to hug gorillas.  We shook.  

Tony said “You can shake girls hands when their American!  Shake her hand, shake her hand.”  

We shook…again.

Tony said “He likes to shake hands of pretty girls.  Shake her hand, shake her hand.”

We shook.  I was only mildly happy at my promotion from Aunty Gorilla to Pretty Girl.   

Tony said something in Korean that made the women laugh and Mr. Kim turn from a handsome asian olive to a bright shade of pink.

“Shake her hand, shake her hand”

We shook.  I don’t know about Mr. Kim…but I felt a little dirty.