Of Spiders and Men
How Robert the Bruce’s spider led me to love
My first historical crush was Robert the Bruce. So brave, hiding in his cave, talking to a spider. He was so beloved that, when he died, they cut out his heart and pickled it. They encased it then in a silver casket, to be strung around the neck on a chain. Perhaps they thought the strong beat would echo through the hearts of the men and lead them to victory in the Crusades. When they lost, it was buried and reburied and buried again. But never in the cave, and there was no ceremony for the spider whose relentless spirit inspired Robert’s living beating heart to beat the drums of war again.
My next one was probably Marc Antony. Although, truth be told, this was perhaps more a literary crush or a fangirl thing for Marlon Brando, whom I hate now, even though he’s dead. Because of Last Tango in Paris, and if I think of him I remember Vivien Leigh in Streetcar: the shock of her reflection caught like a prophecy in the web of a mirror’s broken glass. But then I thought he was an honourable man; arms spread wide and draped in Roman cloth — like butter wouldn’t melt.
Then I moved on to dancers, all kinds (my gaydar not that good). I admired their spirit as well as their perfect physiques that it made me blush to think about. They could jump as high as they wished to, turn on their toes. Light and strong and agile they…
