Transpersonal Art



In the above picture, a single Fairly flares its bioluminescence as it deliberately passes between two spectral prisms. When a Fairly performs this trick, it’s capable of assuming many different shapes. Most shapes are beautiful and delicate to the third-dimensional eye. Little is known about these tiny creatures except their energy is highly concentrated and they are sentient. Maria Belle, an Analytical Behaviorist and 4th dimension expert, has been observing the Fairly for thirty years and tells us, “They possess playful natures and seem unafraid of third dimensional beings. Just like several other fourth-dimensional lifeforms, the Fairly are capable of light-speed travel, yet seem capable of stopping on a dime. The main difference between The Fairly and other fourth dimensional beings is their size. A Fairly could sit comfortably in the palm of one Human hand while most fourth dimensional creatures are larger than great white whales.”


Eros: Eros began as a flower, was put through MegaPhoto's black hole where his petals were broken into rivers of pixels. To add insult to injury, he was put through Adobe photoshop where his pixelated arms were liquified. He no longer calls himself Eros. He has assume the new name of Unrequited Grief. — at In the corridor between the third and fourth dimension.

Eros:  Eros began as a flower, was put through MegaPhoto’s black hole where his petals were broken into rivers of pixels. To add insult to injury, he was put through Adobe photoshop where his pixelated arms were liquified. Now, he no longer calls himself Eros, but has assumed the name Unrequited Grief. — location, the corridor between the third and fourth dimension.



Spotted this "free radical" in the fourth dimension. It was hanging on the cave wall and jumped down on my back and grabbed me by the throat. There it held me in its clutches and was already telling me how, when and where I fell short. "Who are you?" I managed to choke out. "My name is Broken Promises," it told me. "Where would you like me to begin, the middle, the end, or the beginning? — at The image appeared when I took a photograph of a plate and pulled the pixels back from the center. The image emerged already speaking. I gave him an eye.

Broken Promises

Spotted this “free radical” in the fourth dimension too. It was hanging on the cave wall and jumped down on my back and grabbed me by the throat. There it held me in its clutches and was already telling me how, when and where I fell short. “Who are you?” I managed to choke out. “My name is Broken Promises,” it told me. “Where would you like me to begin, in the middle, the end, or the beginning? — The image appeared when I took a photograph of a plate and pulled the pixels back from the center. The image emerged already speaking. I gave him an eye.


 The Creation of Angels: Emerging angels were spotted in the higher realms of the fourth dimension.

The creation of Angels_2357

I died as a mineral and became a plant,
I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was Man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
Yet once more I shall die as Man, to soar
With angels bless’d; but even from angelhood
I must pass on: all except God doth perish.
When I have sacrificed my angel-soul,
I shall become what no mind e’er conceived.
Oh, let me not exist! for Non-existence
Proclaims in organ tones,
To Him we shall return.



Mischief Maker: Creator of Bad Ideas and Dead Ends

copyright © 2014 Martha Fawcett

Winged Victory: Berlin

Winged Victory, Germany

Berlin, Germany, “Early December Dusk” copyright martha Fawcett 2014

As far as I can figure out, my obsession began with the film Wings of Desire by Wen Wender. Set in Berlin, the film opens with the eye of the camera panning around a huge, golden angel mounted atop a tower. As the camera slowly zooms closer, it becomes clear that someone is sitting on the angel’s shoulder. The film had a strong impact on me and I must have watched it three times.

Months later, my husband, Bill, began talking about a business trip he was planning for early December in Hamburg, Germany. He asked if I wanted to go along so I go could experience Hamburg’s Christmas markets. When I suggested that we also go to Berlin too, he asked, “What do you want to do in Berlin in December?”

“I want to look around,” I said.


We took a train from Hamburg to Berlin and arrived late at our hotel. I went to bed around ten o’clock, feeling tired yet restless. My eyes were closed, yet a vision began to unfold. The vision was more than a thought; the vision had life and detail, and the whole thing steeped in feelings of familiarly:

 I find myself standing in front of a small stone tower. The tower sits on the summit of an extremely steep hill. Down below and to my left, a gentle river flows into the north  Laughter and bits of muffled conversation drift through the air from the few picnickers sunning themselves along the riverbank. The air is stained with a golden hue, and I think, it’s Sunday afternoon here.

 As I approached the tower, I see a carved header over the entrance featuring an enormous ribbon with trailing flowers. I know if I go inside and up a staircase, I will find Michael. I go inside and my focus becomes my feet as I climb the stairs ahead. I notice the details, the smooth shiny stone, from centuries of foot-traffic.

 I emerge at the top and recall that this room once held grain. The space is empty now, but I see a young man standing in the middle of this humble place. He is flooded in a golden aura and he is beautiful. He is lean and muscular, with golden blonde hair that curls delicately around the back of his neck. He is wearing a white tunic that cuts diagonally across his bare chest and ends in a skirt mid-thigh. His sandals are straps that tie around his ankles. I rush forward to embrace him and when we touch, something exhilarating and exciting occurs. It feels like the fastest joy ride I’ve ever experienced, but it’s over before I can question it. We embrace in the physical, but the flow was energetic, I move through him. When I reach the top of his head, I complete a backward flip, and find myself standing before him again.

He instantly begins to fade and I stare at him now, attempting to memorize the details of his face. It takes him several minutes to disappear, until the only thing left is the stark impression of a face.

 When all was darkness again, I opened my eyes, got up from my bed, and went into the bathroom of my hotel room. I looked in the mirror and my long, red hair was sticking out all over my head as if I had put my finger in an electrical outlet.

The following morning, my hair was still super-charged when I awoke. “What happened to your hair?” asked Bill. “Huh?” he replied. By now, he was growing used to my fantastic inner experiences.

We spent the day touring Berlin. In late afternoon, we reached Brandenburger Tor. Suddenly I saw IT, gleaming in the late afternoon sun at the end of the boulevard, the golden angel atop the tower that appeared in Wender’s film. I became as excited as a child. “We need to go down there,” I insisted.

Berlin is so openly vast, the structures so huge, that what looks like a short distance can be quite far. It took us almost forty minutes to hike down the Strasse des 17 Juni to the Siegessaüle (Triumphal Column), which is surmounted by the golden, Winged Victory. It was near sundown and we were the last visitors that day. We went inside and the stairs were eerily similar to the stairs in my vision the night before.

I wrote Alone as an experiment. The talk in New Age circles was all about finding the higher or greater self. I had explored the concept of the higher self in the best way I knew how—through my writing. During my initial draft of Alone, all I cared about was getting to the scene where Michael was born. As a result, I had to backtrack and create the entire story. I worked on Alone for a long time, but the dialogue between Mellé and Michael stands. For me, Michael encompassed more than a character in one of my science fiction novel for me, he became my inspiration for creating the Janaforma, yet the only glimpse of him was in that vision in Berlin.

Martha Fawcett copyright 2014





Fireworks Fantasy

Angry Porcupine

Angry Porcupine: Taken in the laboratory on Dr. Pussy Moreau's secret Island somewhere on the planet Herzeyzen

Angry Porcupine: Taken in the laboratory on Dr. Pussy Moreau’s secret Island somewhere on the planet Herzeyzen

Strawberry in The Sky

Aurora display over the New Delphi Crystal

Aurora display over the New Delphi Crystal

Sea life on the Damarian world of Iumman

Sea life on the Damarian world of Iumman

 Dimensional Breach

A picture of the cargo ship, Gemstone, an instant before it was destroyed. No one wasy aboard. The ship was on autopilot.

A picture of the cargo ship, Gemstone, an instant before it was destroyed. No one was aboard. The ship was on autopilot.

Mischief Maker: Creator of Bad Decisions

This is a free radical aggregate consciousness that drift around throughout the fourth dimension looking for soul that it can adhere to.

This is a free radical aggregate consciousness that drift around throughout the fourth dimension looking for soul that it can adhere to.

The free radical "Denial" turns and leaves a wake of anger behind.

The free radical “Denial” turns and leaves a wake of anger behind.

 Human Boy

A Human boy from the planet Earth celebrates their sacred day of freedom and liberty.

A Human boy of the late Twentieth Century celebrates the sacred day of freedom and liberty on the planet Earth.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Awakening in Someone Else’s Dream


A Japanese legend says, if you are unable to sleep at night, it’s because you’re awake in someone else’s dream.


 I’m in an Athens bathhouse where Candidus and I are about to take a dip in a pool. Candidus looks up at me from the edge of the pool and says, “We are dreaming Sante and we are inside the same dream.”

Socrates wades into the water with his hand bracing the small of his back. He is nude and I can see his body is hard and sense his mind is erudite. When he speaks, his assertions cut like knife blades. “I have declared creations dead with mere diversions inside my mind,” he booms. “You are no accident! No musing! No dream! You are not a flash of light across a warm afternoon stream or something I can forget, like a dream. I have collected volumes on you inside The Library of the Black Language. The consideration I put into you is of a craftsman who takes ten years to carve one sandalwood box. Incarnations of my own thought went into making you. I am not ashamed that I care.”

Candidus paces up and down along the pool edge. His voice is higher, befitting his youth. “Try to understand,” he begs. “This time, I was supposed to be wild. Being wild, I would know a freedom from you, a relief from your tidy perfectionism. That’s why I created denial. Denial is my instrument, my device and dispassionate tool. Lamentably, my denial began eroding like beach sand right after my first sentimental desire for you lodged in my heart.” His face turns strained with a new and incredulous thought. “What happened between us? Why do I yearn for you so? Why do I erect monuments to you in honor of my love?”

Socrates is confident with a ready rebuttal. “I always search for patterns of progress within you, my child. If that is my ‘tidy perfectionism’—as you want to ridicule it—then you have no concept of the transcendent thrills still waiting for you. You are as headstrong now as you were then. This time I attempted to fulfill your every wish, although I warned you beforehand that your forgetfulness was a foolish choice. If that makes me a sentimental old fool for indulging you, then I will wear that witless cap.” Socrates smiles with an expression of secure knowing. “Besides, who are we fooling here? Let’s be honest with each other for once. You know who I am and you have always known. Will you at least admit that I allowed you to tinker with yourself for eons?”

Candidus hesitates searching for hidden traps in Socrates’ statement. “I will concede that point,” he agrees.

“And will you concede that I made every attempt to camouflage your divinity, that thing you claimed prevented the wildness, to make the experiment unbiased?”

“I will not concede that point,” declares Candidus. “I will not concede that point until you tell me what the experiment was supposed to be.”

Socrates is generous, like a good father. “Is that all you want to know? Damn child! I would have asked for the keys to The Library if I were in your shoes. You might have gotten them too!” Socrates wades out of the water and walks up some steps as he wraps a wide girdle around his waist. He begins to leave and then turns back, his bare chest still pink and plump from the hot water. He stands with arms akimbo. He is a man put together from odd pieces that do not match—arms too long and legs too short on that square Mediterranean frame. In the comfort of his oddness, he manages to appear graceful. “Long ago, there was a debate between us. You took the side that one needed to be wild in order to create and I took the side that one needed to be completely conscious to do it well.”

Candidus looks as if a multidex is computing inside his head. “So my wildness is an illusion because I am forever a conscious part of you?”

Socrates bows with exaggerated courtesy. “It has taken us six thousand years to resolve this particular debate. The solution is easy when you truly remember. Do not forget! You remembered inside this dream.”

Excerpt from, The Permeable Web of Time by Martha Fawcett

copyright © 2014 Martha Fawcett

Lullaby to Freedom

ChinaValley ponies

Who am I?

I am you looking back at me.

We-loo, we-loo yu-a.

Who are you?

You are me

 looking back at you.

We-loo, we-loo, yu-a

Who are we?

We are a mirror.

We-loo, we-loo, yu-a

Who is the mirror?

The mirror is illusion.

We-loo, we-loo, yu-a.

Who is the illusion?

The illusion is nothing.

We-loo, we-loo, yu-a.


copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

The Psychic Mirrors of Sheesh Mahal

Amber, Rajastan, India: The Sheesh Mahal (Palace of Glass), considered to be one of the world’s best Chambers of Mirrors. Built by King Man Singh Ji in the 16th Century for his queen.

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The queen loved the stars by was not allowed to sleep outside at night, so the king directed his architects to create a chamber for her that would mimic the nighttime sky. They say that the light of only two candles will reflect and magnify in this chamber until it is drowning in the light of a thousands stars.

ceiling 03

 I marvel over the millions of people who must have gazed into those thousands of tiny mirrors since the 16th Century. The mirrors seemed like sirens, peddling their visions to any random passerby. “Come see!” they each beckoned. “Tell us what you see of yourself in me.”

That night, I experienced a vivid dream. The dream spirits exercised their sense of humor with me, in more ways than one. They toyed with my silly vanity. They mocked me and remind me that I still am The Fool who enjoyed the easy path.

Sheel Mahal

The dream opens and I’m standing on a balcony at the Sheesh Mahal. I look through the viewfinder of my camera, trying to focus the lens on the monkeys swinging from tree limb to tree limb. I hear music drifting out of the jungle and stop what I’m doing and look at the scene directly for the first time. It’s organic and now I smell the earth and vegetation. The scene is a breathtaking sight of vivid jungle greens, scarlet flowers, and happy creatures. I never question the incongruity that the Steve Miller Band is singing, The Window, somewhere out there in the jungle among the frolicking animals.


Ask my baby what she wants to be.
She’ll say a monkey swinging in a tree.
Ask my baby what she thinking of,
She’ll say there’s nothing greater than love.

Look through the window.
Tell me what do you see?
A beautiful planet, peace and harmony . . ..

Another person stops for a moment and tells me that it is time to move on. I’m not ready, I think. I remember that I left some personal belongings behind in the hotel room but now it’s too late to retrieve them.

I now go inside to the Chamber of Mirrors for the express purpose to have a look at my face.  I feel tired and think, I probably look terrible. However, when I look in the mirror, I see that I look better than I’ve ever looked before. Then something starts happening to me as  I gaze in the mirror. In the mirror,  I see a tiny white light in the center of my forehead.  As I watch the light, it grows brighter until it obliterates my physical face, but I can still see the light is starting to extend down my body, like a sword. When it reaches my feet, it flashes outward until it consumes me.

The following day I leave for Jaipur and discover I have forgotten my magnifying mirror in the hotel in Amber. Now I can no longer look at myself closely or put on my eye makeup. Instead, my attention goes outward where my empathy is put to the test.

Sheesh Mahal 1 copy

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Altered States of Consciousness

I’ve been interested in various states of consciousness for a long time. I’m interested because I am unwilling to ignore the strange stutters in consensus or accepted reality that many people label “coincidence.” Between 1997 and 1999, I was involved with a group of people interested in exploring dreams, the symbolic language in dreams, and the real life impact dreams have upon our lives. We met every week for two years.

During these two years, strange incidents occurred among us for which no common explanation was ever found. For instances, eight of us met one evening and five of us reported that we rode a  bicycle in our dream. None of the five even owned bicycles. Another time, a woman in the group had a dream where she and I are together. We are listening to a man talk who is up on a stage and she turns to me and says, “What did he say, Martha?” and then she awoke.  She told me about this dream and the next night I am in her dream and she turns to me and says, “What did he say, Martha?” The next time we meet I was able to tell her the man said. “Together we stand like children before the Divine and wonder at the powers of love.”

During this time I came to the conclusion that consciousness is not restricted to our physical bodies and consciousness is not limited to linear time. The rules of normal reality apply only to those who believe they are real. In other words, we build our own prison walls.

When I first began using social media, I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. But as time passed and I began connecting with more people, I noticed strange telepathic happenings occur. I don’t think I’m the only one who has noticed these psychic shocks and would appreciate hearing from others on this topic.

So here is my question : Could it be that when we enter the world of social media, the mind drifts out of the body, just as it does it the dream state? If this is true perhaps what we’ve created with The Internet is an extension of the collective unconscious. Furthermore, if we’ve created a working sub-station of the collective unconscious, then the impossible could be waiting right around the  next corner. Unfortunately, not everyone will notice or care.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett


Zombie Apcolypse Hits Mainstreet USA

What lies beneath is only buried, it is not dead.  With one-eye closed, horror becomes caricature presenting us with an archetypal opera on tour from the world of dreams.  Further armed with a macabre sense of humor, one begins to believe a zombie kerfuffle of animated rot might even be amusing.

Mainstreet appeared safe until the sun went down at 5:38 EST and a darkness took hold that was as black as kohl. It was 6:03 on the dot when Thorp Whitaker, Mainstreet’s sheriff, and his deputy, Moby Jensen, walked out of the Dunkin Donuts at Eastgate Mall. Sheriff Whitaker glanced up toward the sky before saying, “More doom and gloom than this man can handle. When’s the goddamn cloud cover going to lift? We’re supposed to be having a full moon tonight.”

Moby took a bite out of his jelly donut and exposed its bright red filling.  “Ground’s too hot for this time of year. That’s what’s causing all the fog.”

Getting along toward 6:30, families were going about their familiar routines—children and homework, TV, then bed around 10:00.  Most people were asleep when the earth in several of the churchyards began to crack and heave upward. The Westminster clock hanging on the wall behind the sheriff’s desk had just chimed 11:00 o’clock when Moby glanced up from his copy of Iron Man Magazine and asked Sheriff Whitaker, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Sheriff Whitaker replied. He was hard of hearing from his many years of target practice without wearing earplugs.

Moby listened more carefully. He even got up from his chair and went to the front door of the office, opened it, and peered up and down the deserted street. The one slight peculiarity were the lights along the main drag. They were emitting an eerie green glow in the fog. Beyond that, the night was deadly quiet. Moby stepped back inside and told the sheriff, “Guess it was nothing. Maybe it’s all that fracking they’re doing south of town. Probably giving mother nature a bellyache.”

By then, it already was too late. Apocalypse began at sundown.

Seconds after the last rays of orange sun dipped below the horizon, the first cracks appeared in the ground at Saint Mary’s Cemetery. By 7:10, the dirt-encrusted nails of bony fingertips were emerging here and there, poking up through the ground like drifts of button mushrooms. By 9:00 o’clock, the ground in Saint Mary’s Cemetery appeared to be alive with squirming disembodied hands.

In the long run, escape from their underground prison was more difficult for the zombies than is commonly believed. It took them hours to dig their way to freedom. Those who had been dead the longest emerged first, crawling out through the generational layers of compost blanketing the Earth. The longest-undead even proved helpful to their newly-undead compatriots. Once they were free, they took up the task of tearing at the sod where the newly buried were struggling to escape. They even buddied-up and moved a few larger boulders that impeded the resurrection of some. What they lacked in soul, brains, and physical vigor, they made up for in determination.

When the zombie resurrection was complete, in Saint Mary’s Cemetery alone, assembled were eleven million various insects; thirty-eight prehistoric sloths; a pair of saber-tooth tigers; three condykarths, which are prehistoric hoofed mammals; twenty Paleo-Indian Clovis people, a woolly mammoth, eleven hundred rats and mice; thirty-one dogs; fifty-eight cats and one goat. Thirty-eight modern humans also resurrected. Two were in unmarked graves. One of these two had been buried with the one goat in a compromising position. That was story in itself. The other unmarked grave held the remains of an alien found in the middle of a crop circle in 1953. At the time, two dozen local residents saw the body and declared it, “another goddamn Gray.” The sheriff at the time, Sheriff Tinabadge, told the local news, “It was nothing more than the mutilated remains of a cow.” By that time, the body of the alien was safely buried in an unmarked grave in Saint Mary’s Cemetery.

The town of Mainstreet had a dwindling population. Depending on the profit-margin whims of mega-corporations, the population could vary between three thousand and seven thousand residences. Most shops along the main street of town stood empty since the 1970’s when outsourcing sucked the life-blood out of the community. All serious commerce now took place at Eastgate Mall where dead-eyed cashiers at the Walmart ordered customers to, “Have a nice day or else.” The only in-town traffic jam happened on Sunday mornings when the thirty-two churches opened their doors and Bible-thumping preachers disseminated God’s views on human morality to the masses. Sixteen of these churches had cemeteries. Mariner’s Church was said to hold the remains of a famous Caribbean pirate and a family of early European settlers that died of The Plague. The new cemetery west of town and the veterans cemetery north of town held thousands, including all those who died in the World Wars.

At exactly 10:58 PM, the woolly mammoth zombie suddenly found her footing and obliterated the white picket fence surrounding Saint Mary’s Church. That’s when Moby Jensen glanced up from his magazine and asked Sheriff Whitaker, “Did you hear that?” Moments later, the mass of undead from the beginning of time began their slow lumbering pilgrimage toward the heart of Mainstreet. Their feet barely left the ground as they shuffled and scraped their way along toward nowhere and beyond. The only glue holding the divergent assemblage together was their collective rot. In the long run, their rot proved a weak epoxy and the coutége left skin, teeth, hair and an occasional body part along the thoroughfare to town. In the post-mortem world we live in today, it was easy to trace, what would become known in the aftermath as, the Resurrection Point of each zombie.

Pity the wide-eyed innocents who first saw the stark visceral emergence of the zombies and realized they were something more serious than wispy ghosts.

Mainstreet’s library closed its doors at 10:00 PM. Nancy Prettineck, librarian, went to the ladies room, fixed her face, and blotted her lead-red lipstick with a piece of tissue and tossed it in the trashcan. Later, Moby Jensen would retrieve the tissue as evidence. When Nancy walked outside at 10:20, her boyfriend Tommy Hotkake was waiting to drive her home. Instead, Tommy  seduced Nancy into going to Stewart’s for burgers and root beers. While they were eating, he also talked her into driving out to Pike’s Reservoir. They never made it.  Two bodies were found the next day with missing brains. They were taken to the county morgue where they resurrected the following night with all the other morgue residents.

Pity the realist who attempted to use his authority and physical power to halt the sudden onslaught.

When the bulk of the zombies reached the crossroads at the center of Mainstreet, Sheriff Whitaker loaded his double-barreled shotgun and stepped out into the middle of the street. A few seconds later, the slow stampede took him down with all the others.

Pity the survivors for they carry the burdens of the past and present as they attempt to kept their own hope alive.

An hour past dawn, the country clerk, the only official still left alive in Mainstreet, swore Moby Jensen in as the new acting sheriff. Moby stood in the middle of the street as the few hundred survivors came out of hiding and sought his guidance. Moby was twenty-two years old, patient, smart and respectful, yet he felt the deep well of his inexperience that morning. His baby blue eyes filled with tears as he told his friends and neighbors, “We’re outnumber by at least a million to one.”

“We will fight!” came a resolute voice from the small crowd.

Moby was shocked at the energy and determination coming from them. “That’s right! We’ll fight!” he shouted in return. “We’ll call ourselves the Army of The Living.”

“We are the Army of The Living!” came a voice from one quarter and then another and another until they all were shouting, “We’ll fight! We’re the Army of The Living.”

Moby raised his arms and said, “Listen, every last one of you,” and the small band of survivors hushed and drew near. “We know very little about this new menace, but we do know the following three things: Their first targets are the most innocent; they want our humanity and souls and for some cockamamie reason, they believe our complete consciousness resides in our brains. We know zombies cannot survive the light of day and the scrutiny of reason; however, if you are bitten, you will become a zombie too.”

“Keep hope alive,” shouted a woman’s voice off to his right.

“That’s right,” said Moby. “If we can keep hope alive, it will keep us alive.” And so the battle began…

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Is the Headless Horseman of Tarrytown in Cahoots with the Sleepy Hollow Gnomes?

photo (2)Walking in the woods near Tarrytown, New York, I saw a half-dead tree that appeared to be hit by lightening. The strike left a deep invagination that ran all the way up the trunk and penetrated into the heartwood, yet the tree was still alive. What caught my attention was deep inside the tree, something that resembled a small door. See the fungi growing out of the doorframe? It is just beginning to fade.

In the early Nineteenth Century, Washington Irving first reported on the bizarre and otherworldly happenings that occurred in the environs of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow; so I was forewarned and suspicious. To take this picture I had to lean inside the tree and worry about spiders jumping into my hair. I showed the picture to my four felines when I returned home and they told me, “You’ve taken a picture of a door to a lower kingdom, specifically a gnome kingdom. You’re lucky you got out alive.” Felines are sworn enemies of gnomes. In Germanic folklore, gnomes carry darts with them so they can injure humans. That sudden twinge you feel in your neck, you probably were hit by a gnome dart.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Perfect Empathy

photo - CopyPholcus phalangioides also known as the “vibrating spider, cellar spider,” or daddy long-legs.”

Buddha sits in meditative peace until Pholcus phalangioides tickles Buddha’s cheek. This is normal behavior for daddy long-legs that vibrates the web of other spiders to mimic the struggle of trapped prey. This special trick lures hungry webhosts closer to the waiting mouth of the vibrating spider. Buddha feels the dancing feet upon his forehead, nose, and cheek, but does not move. When the spider settles into a position between the Buddha’s left and third eye, the Buddha looks out through the spider’s compound eyes and see in a way he has never seen before.
copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett