I think of ecology like I think about society (spiders)
A few days ago my girlfriend screamed 'there's a really fucking big spider here'. He had emerged from some boxes (we'd moved houses) and totally startled her. Like most people I know, I tend to fall apart when it comes to spiders, but of the two of us I'm the least useless around them, so it was up to me to sort it out. My chosen method is pop a glass down, stiff cardboard underneath, run outside, set the contraption down, knock the glass over, run away.
This spider removal was a disaster. First, I couldn't find the right type of cardboard (too thin and it bends, the spider escapes onto my hand, too thick and I can't get it under the glass). Second, when I took it outside it immediately ran back at me/the house, causing a ruckus. Finally, when I eventually got it out, it immediately disappeared. Sometimes it's comforting to see them run into a bush or up a tree. But vanishing is never that re-assuring.
Here's a photo of the spider in question (note it is not 'a really fucking big' one, this is AUSTRALIA after all).
Spiders make me really squeamish, but only if they are of a certain size. For where I live this means that they (basically) have to be huntsman, though further north Orb Spiders and Funnel Webs are freaky too. Like most people in Melbourne, huntsman spiders occupy a really noticeable part of my memory.
When I was young, every summer we would go to the beach, renting the same house each year. Without fail there would be an absolute gauntlet of huntsman waiting for us. This meant that my Dad would just be beside himself as we all asked him to take them out. Of the five of us, he's the only one who can handle spiders that big. My sister is worse than me, my mother about the same, my brother isn't a fan.
The largest spider I ever saw was at that house. My Dad had to leave and do some work, so he wasn't around. I woke up, went to the toilet and while flushing just saw this dinner plate monster on the tiny window carved into the shack's wall. I know my memory is unreliable because, when I replay the scene, the spider is so large as to be blotting out the early morning sun coming through the window and, while it was big, it wasn't as big as the fucking sun.
That day, while waiting for Dad to come home, we all went to town and used the public toilet. It was a mess. My Dad, grumpy that his return to the beach was being heralded by chores, was reluctant to help, annoyed even. But when he opened the door and saw the offending spider he said 'oh that's quite large'. Damn right it was.
Another memory I have is of my friend's father, armed with a vacuum cleaner, precariously balanced mid-way up a book case shelf trying to catch a giant as my friend and I screamed and our hearts raced. Like a high-wire performer, he was balancing between very little, pulling the vacuum around. This is not a great method for removing spiders, in case you're wondering.
I came across this spider (last spider picture!) a few years ago while taking some pots out of my car. By this time in my life I'd gotten to a point where I leap out of my skin but can start to do something without being too scared. I want to say the spider from my childhood was double the size, but that'd be a lie. Luckily this guy was pretty content to run out of the car, down past the window and away somewhere else.
I used this photo in an art project called Paterson's Curse. That project was all about violence, fear, shame and masculinity. I kept finding myself walking around the suburbs, the scrub, the town feeling on edge - worried I'd step on a snake or, worse yet, come into an argument with another man. I felt similarly being caught off guard by this huntsman than I did being scared by violence from young men I was working with, or fear of my own memories of my own violence. Animals often become symbols and proxies, but that reduces them and what they can show us about life and the world.
When I worked in Guyana there was a chance I could see the largest spider on the planet (Goliath bird eater!). This spider is so large it can be heard, can rub it's legs together sending small hairs into the air to irritate the eyes, and is genuine Shelob nightmare fuel. We asked one of the guides in the country how big they were 'oh, about the size of a puppy'. Holy moly. But, part of me wanted to see one - I was never alone and the company of others makes things a bit less worrying - and in a way it's an incredible animal. But another (larger?) part of me was ok not seeing one, more ok with all the smaller spiders jumping from trees and crawling over our kit in the jungle. Sometimes enough is enough. Here's a picture of Guyana, no spiders visible (though probably there).
A lot of people I know will say 'why not kill it?' when I relay a story about spiders. Like them, I too find spider's a bit gross, super creepy and definitely not for me, but I don't think something should die just because I'm uncomfortable with it. Spiders do a lot for the world, even if they are scary. That value is more important than my discomfort. But even if they weren't a net benefit, discomfort seems too small a barrier for ending something's life. I find that reaction hard to respect: can't you care a little more about the world than your shortest-term reaction?
To me, ecology is a bit like society. It's just a form of mapping and talking about the way everything can be connected to everything else. Without spiders we have more bugs, fewer birds. Our own individual perceptions and feelings matter, but there's a bigger picture out there. The spiders matter, even if I wish they'd go away, mosquitos matter even if I wish they didn't bite. Sharks matter even if they lurk in my nightmares. But I think empathy with animals like this is hard. These are not easy animals to love, to enjoy or to value. But we need them, much more than they need us. It's easy to spray a spider with something until it dies, but what have you traded? A moment of discomfort for something else's existence seems an ugly and one-sided bargain.
Like I said above, animals also form this interesting avenue to exploration. Thinking about accepting an animal, or what the animal's experience of us, the world, life, is like prompts something really interesting and deep for me. We can see ourselves more holistically, the world in a more complete fashion. What is the world if not a place made up of all the experiences of it? And what makes mine more vital than a spiders', an ant's or an eagle's?
It's a bit cliche to think of animals as the same as humans, and I think there's limits to that line of logic. But, at the same time, I do think we should think about what it means to kill something and what it means to care for something. I think we can be proud of ourselves when we find ways to live alongside animals that frighten us, but I don't know if we can be as proud when we chemically execute a slightly-too-ugly intruder.
Ecology is like society: we all have to make room for everyone else. We might not like it, we might even resent it a little, but exclusion eventually harms us all.