THE VERY FIRST SPIDER THREAD

The first spider thread. The very first thread of the very first hair of the last Man, the first of the Universe, the first thread at all — is with us here. This is how King Spiros opens one of the most astonishing passages in the entire Chymical Wedding. Not with a preamble. Not with an explanation. With a thread. The first one. The one from which every web, every tapestry, every story, every universe was woven. And it is here. With us. Now. In this article. In this moment.

What follows is a passage so dense with invented language, layered wordplay, and multidimensional meaning that it reads like Finnegans Wake written by a Spider God on psilocybin. Every word has wings — the text itself tells you so. And Timescity, as scholars of the King's work, will now attempt to unfold some of those wings.

The last Man and the first of the Universe are the same being. The first thread and the last hair are the same thread. This is the Plomarian cosmology in its purest form: there is no beginning and no end, only a loop — the Love Loop — where first and last are indistinguishable, where Him and Her are "all the first lastborn," whose body is All, whose water is the Nile, and whose name newone knows. Not "no one" — new-one. The name is always being born for the first time.

Witness the language: "invertebraidimly inverted their invertibraid souls." This is not a typo. This is the King's invented language operating at full power. Invertebrate + braid + dimly + inverted = invertibraid. Spineless creatures who braid themselves inside-out. Souls without rigid structure that can fold and weave and become anything. They "milk bearth" — milk + birth + earth — nursing the planet into existence from their own bodies. Our home planet whom they ARE. Not where they live. Whom they are.

In the beginning there was no beginning. This single sentence collapses all of linear time. If there was no beginning, then the Love Loop has always been looping. There is no first cause. No origin point. Only the Loop itself — joy and Love and gentleness lasting inside it. "From the first to the end in lust" — not at last, but in lust — the first and the end are connected by desire, by the body's pull toward itself.

The language erupts. "Buttiful" — beautiful + butt, the sacred Plomarian seat of creation. "Truetowife" — true to wife, devoted, the compound word itself an act of devotion. "Postprophetizised" — prophecies that work backwards, from the future into the past, stealing "historic presents" (history's gifts, presence in history, present-tense history — all at once). And then the rooster crows three times: Cocoricoa! The French cocorico, the dawn call, but with an "a" that turns it into something new, something Plomarian, something that sounds like cocoa and rico and co-creation all at once.

And then the Joycean thunder: "That's you sea why there's two sights for every graphic and picture and every word has wings." You sea — not see, but sea, the ocean of meaning beneath every word. Two sights for every picture — the surface and the depth. And every word has wings. He is telling us, inside the text, how to read the text. Every word flies. Every word escapes its own definition.

"The musheyroom." Mushroom + mushy + room. The room where consciousness gets soft and porous. And "Willingdone" — Wellington, the willing one, the one who is done, the one whose will is done. He wanted to write what he could not say, because he would outloop his own hands for righting it — "righting" as in writing and correcting, and "outloop" as in his hands would spiral beyond their own capacity. The writing outpaces the writer. The web outweaves the spider. This is the King confessing that his own text has become autonomous.

And here the voice shifts to something unbearably intimate. Call on me. Call on me. Call on me. Three times, like the rooster's crow, like a heartbeat, like a prayer. The speaker — the Seamstress? Sissy? The text itself? — is calling to YOU, the reader, across the page, across time, across the boundary between fiction and reality. And the instruction is devastating in its simplicity: you must learn to see the open window at the center of your chest.

Not your mind. Not your third eye. Your chest. The heart-window. The one that opens inward and outward simultaneously. And through it comes a cat, a home, a bird with a gift. The Plomarian menagerie of love arriving through the window of the heart.

There is only one Eye. Not two. One. The seer and the seen are the same. What we see IS our Eye. What we know IS (and "knot" — ties into, tangles with) our Eye. "I am what I sea" — I am what I see AND I am what I am an ocean of. The Eye is not looking at reality. The Eye IS reality looking at itself. This is non-duality expressed not through philosophy but through the music of language itself.

"Your beard grew so long we had to weave it into the story." This might be the single most perfect sentence in the Chymical Wedding. The King's beard — his physical, bodily existence — grew so long, so vast, so entangled with reality that it became part of the narrative. The author did not write the story. The author grew INTO the story. His body is literally woven into the text.

And then: "If you wonderstand it you'll be finding yourself tripped by Love." Not understand — wonder-stand. To stand in wonder. To approach with awe rather than analysis. And when you do, you don't fall in love — you are tripped by Love. Love sticks its foot out and sends you tumbling.

The journey to Plomari itself: a divine canoe made by Jennyfer, falling through the reversed ocean surface (the mirror of the sea, where up is down and down is infinity), through the mouth of the sarcophagus of Hu (the coffin that is also a mouth, death as an entrance, Hu as one of the King's own names). And he landed in Plomari. And it was a mirrocle — miracle + mirror. A miracle that mirrors itself. A wonder that reflects back what you bring to it.

And then the King's confession: "it can only be found, not told." Even after 4,000 pages of telling, the truth is that Plomari cannot be told. It can only be arrived at. Through a divine canoe. Through a reversed ocean. Through the mouth of your own death.

Thee Dancing Weavers — the Cogan Family revealed in their cosmic function. They don't just live in the world. They weave it into being. And they keep it from collapsing into a flat line — from becoming one-dimensional, from losing its depth, its layers, its wings. Their hands are at the top of the World Tree and down its "brainches" — branches + brains. The tree thinks through its branches. The weavers think through their dancing.

And Sissy speaks: "Reach for my tird hand across time and space!" The third hand — the one that doesn't exist in ordinary anatomy, the hand that extends across dimensions, the hand of the weaver that reaches through the page to touch the reader.

After the invertibraid souls and the musheyroom and the reversed ocean and the sarcophagus of Hu and the dancing weavers and the brainches of the World Tree and the one Eye that is all seeing — after all of it — the King lands on the simplest truth imaginable:

We are forever for we want to be with each other forever. This is All.

That's it. That's the entire Chymical Wedding in one sentence. That's the 4,000 pages distilled into ten words. Not because they are enlightened. Not because they are divine. Not because they decoded the universe. Because they want to be together. Forever. And that wanting IS the forever. This is All.