"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

06 September 2011

Lunar Memories

When I look at the moon, I catch myself thinking of you. During the course of our acquaintance, there were so many times our phones would ring, our voicemails would be full of excited messages of having seen the moon. Sometimes, after a night out, we'd gaze up at that bit of celestial magnificence and just smile. We didn't always agree, sometimes we hardly got along, but we always had the moon.

You were always so desperate for attention. Poor me trips that could move me to obvious disdain and subtle nausea. One of those who loved to play soap opera and Machiavelli whilst protesting too loudly how you hated drama.

When it all came down, you tried oh so hard to drag me into your soap opera, and I moved to rise above, as opposed to rising to the bait. Harpy screeches and murderous glares. The gypsy would feed your dragons, which I found vexing. I still maintain if you two hadn't constantly antagonized one another so much, using me as the excuse, the situation would've resolved itself much sooner. 

I know why you hated me so then; blood. Blood is a funny fucking thing. If it had been one of my siblings, I'd have probably wanted to eat your liver. If it had been my daughter, I would have.

Madam Lung asked your sister to put a leash on you whilst she promised to try and control the gypsy. That's when things started to stabilize. Not long after, I started seeking my entertainments elsewhere. The last time any of us saw one another was at that one funeral. We were all civil. I was sincerely concerned when you mentioned you'd been diagnosed with malignancy, the same type that ate my  mother alive. I envy you your survival, and I know what a terrible thing to even just think, let alone put into language. But there it is, and I can't take it back.

There are a great many things that cannot be taken back...

I sometimes wondered how much shit you talked after seeing me. I wonder if you still harbor that murderous hate, despite the fact your sister gave as good as she got, and it wasn't all my fault. I wonder why I wonder.

But when I see the moon, I think of you. I remember all the times, all the calls, all the messages. That excitement we shared of seeing different viewpoints of the same object of celestial magnificence. For a time, no matter the state of our acquaintance, we always had the moon. When I look up and take it in, there are times I almost call you. Then I take a deep breath, step away from my phone, knowing it's for the best, and just gaze into the silver eye of the moon.


  1. The moon is indeed the mute witness of relationships, c̶h̶a̶o̶t̶i̶c̶ romantic or otherwise.

  2. Sometimes a random thing will remind me of those not quite functional relationships, once upon a time. I might think I'll reach for the phone. (Hey you, remember that time we saw the fluffy black kitten on Cemetery Road?) And then think, maybe not. Why stir it up again? Some things are best left at rest.

  3. Whynotpat; Henry Rollins wrote a wonderful piece about the moon, and how it does not judge, in his book Solipsist.

    Nessa Roo; I couldn't agree more.