I must have forgotten if I ever knew how much more quickly the moon speeds across the firmament in the opposite direction of the slower stars.
I was struck by the beauty of the thin crescent Moon with Venus perched a hand span above it the other night, almost perfectly centered to the crescent. And being out regularly around this time, with just the faintest of twilight darkening the clouds, I notice how the moon has moved hand span by hand span until it is now overhead. Venus which was level with an overhead wire is now a finger below it
This was triggered in part by a blog post I found in Facebook memories this evening from 14 years ago, musing on the Doors’ Hyacinth House. I thought–that was no blinding flash of inspiration; just a stray thought that got caught in the moonlight and grew into something larger, a wandering moth in the moon glow. And I thought after reading that I just need to write more often, to shape my thoughts to words if not daily then close to it because that is how I came to write 18 years ago.
This moment had its genesis also in park from Italo Calvino’s “The Form of Space” from The Complete Cosmicomics, a story in which Qfwfq is falling through a primordial cosmos in which nothing has emerged yet as a point of reference. He cannot even be sure if he is falling or rising or is still, but chooses to feel he is falling, if only to give some shape to his tale.
I know where I am at in space and time. I am at that point where time seems to be constantly accelerating as I slow down, each minute that much a smaller fraction of life. It is not a sensation of falling like Qfwfq’s; perhaps hurtling is a better word in a space in which the most significant dimension is now time. And if I do not take time to shape my thoughts to words even in triviality like this, what more can I expect to write?
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