Spider speech, Mustafa Saha, part two

Mustafa Saha


What prompted Friedrich Nietzsche to make me an allegory of eternal return? He is tracking me. He is watching me. He studies me. He is spying on me. He assigns me all the roles, beneficent and pernicious. He adorns me with all vices. He pleases me with all the virtues. He tattoos my mark on the judge’s forehead. In his eyes, I am the true face of justice. I will seed the sky with storms of vengeance. I tear off the masks of hypocrites, opportunists, upstarts. I drive out the envious, the greedy, the vainglorious, the treacherous, the predatory, the dirty. He describes me as a poisonous spider lurking in my cave, a slanderer of the world, easier on the line. He claims to know my transformations, my metempsychoses, my anamorphoses, my mutations, my transformations, my transmigrations. He flatters me. He casts me out. He parabolizes me. He romanticizes me. It turns me into a metaphor. He challenges me. He misunderstands my charming music. He ignores my wonderful dance, my dangerous round. Condemned wisdoms, abandoned knowledge, cursed dreams are hidden in my cave. I appear as a watermark on every page of his books. I slip between the lines. I cover myself in phosphorescent paints. I am the eternal return. I am the eternal present. I am his succubus, his dragon, his demoness. He smokes. He is raging. He insults the gods. He kills them. I tirelessly weave my web. On a stormy night, blazing with shooting stars, twinkling comets, Friedrich Nietzsche storms my lair. I bite his finger. He returns to the accusation. He wants to steal my secret. I only take one bite.

I exist from the creation of the world. I knew dinosaurs, Balochites, steppe mammoths, cave bears, steppe bison, megaloceros, all extinct creatures and all mammals immortalized by nature. The Chinese have found fossils of my ancestors, the giant Jurassic spiders, which are one hundred and forty million years old. I come to a hundred thousand living species, weaving and non-weaving. Scientists have identified only half of my configurations. I am the biggest predator. I am preventive. I am preventive. I’m taking care of the planet. I am the memory of the past. I breed in thousands of avatars. I’m out of the web of time. I evolve over time, with no beginning and no end. Ovid, in his Metamorphoses, reconstructs my history in Hellenistic terms. He contrasts me with the Greek goddess of war and wisdom. They are after me. This immerses me in the image of Arachne, the gifted tapestry. Nymphs leave their lakes and forests to admire my work. I refuse from the pride of the poor from the guardianship of Athena. I challenge her to a competition. He represents the gods in their omnipotence and majesty. I describe divine love. I reveal their lust, their depravity, their wantonness, their intemperance. Their shamelessness, their obscenity. Between two bloody fights, Athena has only one pleasant occupation, weaving a small drapery to care for her beloved owl. I release her from her experience. She goes into a terrible rage. It ruins my work. I hang myself from a rope suspended from the ceiling. She is overcome with remorse. She brings me back to life. She turns me into a spider. She dooms me to embroider on translucent and silky fabrics until the end of time.

My myth, recorded in grimoires, dates back to an archaic period of rivalry between Greek craftsmanship and craftsmanship from Asia Minor. Pliny the Elder tells me a Lydian origin from the provinces of Izmir and Manisa in what is now Turkey. The poet Nonnos of Panopolis makes me a Persian princess. Other chroniclers connect me with the blind soothsayer from Thebes, Tiresias, who keeps the gift of prophecy until the Underworld, where Ulysses travels to consult with him. I am his confidant. Tiresias fell upon the worst misfortunes. Turned into a female after killing the female of a pair of mating snakes. He does not return to his male sex until seven years after killing the male snake. Tiresias is blinded by the cruel Athena because he spies her undressing to take a bath. We share a common grudge. So many philosophers think of me. Many poets sing to me. So many evil spirits revile me. I am the guardian of starry sunsets, twilight evenings, solar eclipses, mirror visions.


Spider Speech by Mustafa Saha
Spider Speech by Mustafa Saha

I write. I am a calligrapher. I am the soul of poets. I am the aura of magicians, soothsayers, oracles. Unimaginable thoughts, unexpected prosodies arise in my arantele. I am the guardian of dreams. I am the muse. Stéphane Mallarme sees me dazzling under the stars. He calls himself a spider-poet. I am the trace of Paul Valery. I am Clotho, Spinner of Fates. René Char sees me shining at night like the sun. I make my way with gravity in the firmament. I am a constantly changing mask. Each of my appearances is a mask. I am Dionysius. Mask, trick, pretense, cunning, trick, simulation – the laws of nature. I do it with my commandments. I am evil and its opposite. My poison is an elixir, an electuary, an antidote. Poets are reborn from my nectar. I am silent about my secrets. Philosophers wear the masks of the prophets. They sanctify themselves. They deify themselves. They repeat their words like sentences. They predict. They predict. They disappear. Their words follow them in the distance. They hide their existence. They erase their lives. I contrast the mask with the philosophy of the philosophy of the mask. Philosophers are just concepts. Gilles Deleuze is a mask. Michel Foucault is a mask. Jean Baudrillard is a mask. Jacques Derrida is a mask. Jean-Francois Lyotard is a mask. Jean-Luc Nancy is the mask. I knew them. I visited them often. I follow in their footsteps. They only think about their books. Picked up during their lifetime by their descendants. Wandering concepts in a sense of deja vu. Marketing fertilizes their simulacra. Socrates is the first demiurge of the decline of mankind. Life, accused by the idea, judged by the idea, condemned by the idea, punished by the idea, redeemed by the idea. Cut off from nature, devoid of its own nature. Socrates blame existence. They distort it. They moralize it. They politicize it. They deprive him of basic, irreplaceable, vital values. They turn life into a mistake, pain, torment, repentance, a curse. From my cave, I watch wars, genocides, ethnocides, liberticides, mass destruction, human slaughter. I ruthlessly return my work to work. I weave my web day and night. I cleanse the earth.

I am perfection and ambivalence. I am grace and wealth. I’m lazy and arrogant. Holy books puzzle me. I whisper in the ears of the dreamers. I exalt their stanzas and verses. I am their secret muse. I am the inner voice of the Nabis, preachers, reciters, orators, preachers, missionaries, preachers, soothsayers, transmitters of strange truths from the cosmic limbo. I give them the silk of words. The truth of the inexpressible. A bet, a belief based solely on trust. Faith immediately rejects criticism. Faith is tested and not tested. Fidesz and his variant foedus suggest an unbreakable pact, an intangible union. I am the guardian of the temple.

I choose for my dwelling caves, underground passages, ruins, catacombs, hidden hiding places, invisible hypogeum, impregnable alveoli, mausoleums of saints. African cultures revere me. I am Anansi, who prepared the primordial clay, who receives the initial breath. I am the winged archangel, the regulator of time, the sprinkler of dew. In the Atlas Mountains I am the loom that binds heaven and earth. Isn’t the philosopher a spider of the real and the unreal, the existential and the immaterial, the imaginary and the extraordinary? Doesn’t he trap knowledge in his conceptual web? Emmanuel Kant compares me to a soul sitting in the center of the brain, in a place of indescribable smallness, to a soul afflicted without consequences by the excitation of the nerves, which is reflected in distant parts of the body. I move the ropes and levers of the whole machine. I am the underrated soul of the world.

Read also “Spider Speech” by Mustafa Saha, part one

Mustafa Sakha Sociologist, poet, artist

Bio Express. Mustafa Saa, sociologist, poet, artist, co-founder of the March 22 Movement and May 68 historical figure Former sociologist-adviser of the Elysee Palace. New books: Chaim Zafrani. Diversity Thinker” (Hémisphères editions/Maisonneuve & Larose editions, Paris, 2020), “Le Calligraphe des sables” (Orion editions, Casablanca, 2021).

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