You know...I think it's time to write again.

Not for money or notoriety. Not because there is a "dead" line to meet or beat.

But, just for the very love of writing.

I mean, simply for the love of weaving together a web of words in such a way as to trap, for a single fleeting moment, the short attention span of a wandering mind...like a fly overcome by the enchantment of a spider's glistening design.

"Gotcha," the master weaver grinned. "But I shall let you go so we can play again."

The challenge. The intrigue. The sport of it all. Bouncing his words like a bouncing ball.

"I will let you go today. But come back soon so we can play."

A true master weaver weaves for others as easily as he weaves for himself. He spins and spins and spins and steps back to inspect his design, and then...

"Yes! Yes!" they would all exclaim. "That's exactly what I wanted to say! You took the words right out of my heart and placed them on the tip of your pen. Could you do it again?"

"But, of course," the weaver grinned. As he began to spin.

"Come see the Master Weaver," they would say. "He's really hot today!"

They didn't know it was all just "play" for the master weaver.

Time and time and time again he would spin and spin and spin. A brochure, a book, a fancy hat. A card, a badge, a fine place mat.

The logos came from a place beyond the land where immortal legends dawn.

Like something outside of time and space. Outside of reason and proper place.

There seemed to be no form or rhyme. And yet it seemed that every time the weaver would pause his time at play, the crowd around began to say, "That's what I meant. That's what I thought. I'll copyright this work of art."

The master weaver frowned a bit...cocked his head to one side and spit. "Ingrates, fools," he quietly said. "They'd watch me spin here 'till I'm dead. But I have other thoughts in mind. I'll wait my turn...I'll bide my time."

And so he would spin...on and on. Sometimes he would spin from dusk 'till dawn. Until one day he spun around and spun his way right out of town.

"Where's he going? What's he thinking? You think, perhaps, that he's been drinking? There's much to do, so much to say. He can't just run away and play. There's work to do! There're bills to pay! He must weave what we must say!"

They searched and searched but never found the place the master weaver wound.

Some say that he weaves in the field. Some say he weaves beyond the hill. Some think he weaves out by the creek. Some swear they saw him just last week.

But one thing is for certain...one thing is for sure. The weaver doesn't weave here anymore.

He weaves his own intriguing web, sometimes if only to clear his head of all the thought and all the clatter, of all the junk and mindless chatter. Sometimes he weaves to feel again the fun he felt some time back when he wrote for pleasure and not for price; the fun of weaving without vice.

Simply for the joy of weaving and not for someone else believing that they can capture the weavers web only to find it melt instead into a sticky formless mass that has no value...brings in no cash.

"Let him go...let him leave. He'll soon come back to us and weave."


Out in the still of a quiet forest, with whippoorwills and frogs in chorus, there lives a creature who spins designs that fascinates and boggles minds. He weaves his web in such a way that calls for wandering minds to play a silly game of wordy fun that's never tiring until they're done.

And though my little tale is true, I know you've better things to do.

So I will let you go today. But come back soon so we can play.