Friday, July 29, 2011

Moon Dreams

It’s almost as if there were two Moons. There’s the shining object in the sky, cycling through its changes every month, fat belly to sickle and back. Riding in the sky seeming no bigger than a cherry. It doesn’t make sense that it can lift the whole mass of the Pacific Ocean, rocking it first one way and then another in its bed. I can make no picture in my mind of the weight of all that water, but scientists tell us it’s 1400000000000000000 metric tons. The number doesn’t really mean much, except that it’s pretty big. But then you look up again at that little silver ball and it doesn’t quite compute. The force it takes to move that mass of water twice a day doing all that? Theoretically we can manage it, but it doesn’t build itself into our management of physical reality.

And if it’s doing all that, what else is it doing? Midwives know that full moons bring on labour.

In the old world picture, where we lived inside crystal spheres, one inside the other, the moon was the first one. It managed water. Therefore it managed decay. Of course it did. Look at the grey patches on it. If we could just get out of the sphere of the moon there would be no more death or decay. Decay is, of course, the leading edge of regeneration. Things have to rot so they can turn into other things. All changes then belong to the sphere of the Moon.

Again as I say this I hear this tiny shriek in my brain. It’s a little stick-man who thinks he . He’s smart, for sure, and I need him – his job is to keep up the pretext that I am a coherent unit. Without him I’d be no more coherent that moving water, which is, after all, essentially what we are. Fluid cells in the ocean built themselves a carriage to walk out of the water, taking the water with them, designing a lovely pump to distribute the salt water among themselves.

And if we all carry the ocean with us, replicating the tides in the beating of our heart, it seems logical to suppose that we are moved by the Moon as much as the oceans are, and the mini-oceans we carry in our bodies reach up to the Moon, and maybe, as we dream tiny endless stories, the Moon is dreaming us.

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