Violetarantula is an 8-legged shape-shifting spider deity, who is a triple deity all on her own by embodying the maiden mother crone archetype. As a maiden she is meek and reserved, living an utterly normal life as a fact checker for a physics magazine. She is dark-natured and somewhat jaded, but this is in part due to her inherited gift of psychomety, the gift of auric sight and prophetic impressions  received upon making physical contact with someone when using her palms. Despite its wonder, she is fighting not to view her gift as a curse. This gift is ironically experienced non-abrasively, solely on other planes of existence, whereas in 3D, information she receives through this gift seems jarring and skewed. Despite this, third dimension is where she calls home.  As she evolves through her journey so does her gift. Through this evolution, her gift continues to be problematic in her home dimension 3D, until an unlikely turn of events takes place. A new awakening bestows power upon her to use her gift, with limitless clarity and safety. The following is a bit of her back story, a real slice of life from maiden Violetarantula.


"It had been raining that Wednesday. Mercury was on the horizon. I didn’t mind the moisture as it wasn’t snow and the icy mask of the dying season had finally started to melt away. It was unseasonably warm to be the brink of spring. The heat and humidity seemed to thaw my rigidity, bringing my meat, my limbs back to life. One can barely discern just how creatively stifling 50 hours a week of fact-checking can be. 9 months into the gig, clawing my way out of incomplete seasons…my guess is still as good as anybody’s.

I pressed my feet against the window sill as pins and needles danced their way up the length of my legs, gradually waking from being pretzeled under me the night before. My whitey tight-ied bum rest against an olive green leather seat cushion, held in place by old cherry wood pieces. My back was to my black-clad bed, my front facing the grey floating about outside the window. Translucent white smoke wafted from a single clove cigarette that rest betwixt my fingers and matched the bed perfectly. I switched hands and slid said fingers through the handle of a steaming white porcelain mug of Earl Grey, resting just to the right of my feet on the window sill. Reluctantly, I raised it to my lips as the billowing steam reached me before the nearly scalding liquid could. My shallow breath made big waves on the tiny lake of amber liquid in my cup, the steam rushing away in an elegantly brisk, silent dance. The rain pellets against my window made a trance-like rhythm as I stared through the soaked glass. Pieces of my adventures from just hours prior came soaring back in fleeting streams through my psyche in images and sensations of the oddest nostalgia--the kind with no clear reference point. But this kind of fractured dream reminiscence isn't exactly all that uncommon, unfortunately. However when dreams do arrive in their entirety, it is quite an experience to behold. 

These kinds of dreams have become less frequent but are richer when they come. They tend to make living on this plane much easier to bear. They put “real life” into perspective. Sometimes I wish I could live in this field of dreams, this "alternate reality". The older I get, the more I run out of reasons to come back here. I wish I had a choice in the matter. But hope is a shade of green that I can’t exactly recognize...So... every day I keep my humility handy, and clean up the literary waste of my superiors.  Warm, I remain, in my nest of books in my flat, stacked so high that the sunlight barely finds me. I stay on this path and the oddity of its comfort, in the midst of its mundane pains. I stay here, burrowed, rest and safety assured. 

I finally took a sip from the mug after several feverish blows and it all but burned me. In a reactive motion, I quickly set the mug back into the hazy light of the window and grabbed my phone from beside it. I had no missed calls or texts, unsurprisingly. Not even from my Creole freckled favourite, she who at this point might as well be deceased, my darling Olivia.

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Olivia has stopped calling me to go out to clubs with her. It’s a shame. I use to love the way her flame-framed face would slack as the night aged. But the liquor eventually stopped dulling my sight of people's auras, then reversed its charm by magnifying the sight. Not to sound like a condescending cynic…but the places she loves to go—and I love her for going to them—are usually packed body to body with muddy auras of undistinguishable color amok, those of which are most pungent in such settings, when pungency is what I am trying most to avoid. It’s a gift or a curse of sorts that I inherited from my mother. I often wonder who my father was and what brought them together. The most extensive of her answers has always been, “The music made a path.” Whattaya know. Another gaping puzzle hole.


This gift or curse or whatever it is that consumes me, has been a problem of mine ever since puberty. As soon as my senses heightened to notice more of what composes people…visibility of the good came along with the bad. At times it’s like the monstrosities of them reach out, unconstrained, like shapeless floating horrors made of colored smoke, carrying with them their own distinct stink….their entire life’s stink. This awareness made it a bit hard to make friends, let alone a lover. The only sexual encounters I’ve had are very far and few between… and blurred. When I get a certain ‘itch’, I step into the night and keep a blindfold in my purse (for bedroom retrieval for my precious astral eyes/to maintain my sanity), when I find the right stranger who’s aura doesn’t seem too threatening. Though…depending on how long I’ve been hiding away or denying my tastes, more of a threat might better sate my thirsts in ways I’m not fond of admitting. With this past winter holding me hostage to its frigid hostility, I fear where my desires may lead me once I release my self from this burrowed cage.

I shook myself from the daze this beautifully grey Wednesday morning had begun to spiral me into. Pivoting my legs to the floor, I approached and consulted my bookcase as to what blanket of words to keep beneath in transit to the office. I found my morning's match and felt a ripple descend through me as my mind's eye glimpsed the evening's pending festivities. It's only so often that I indulge in an escape from this mayhem of maximum density. Something told me tonight would be one of those nights, but no one could have told me to just what extent that escape would be. Oh the places curiosity takes you.