The morning—stars.
Orion easily found first, then Mars and Jupiter. Venus, I learned, was already too close to the place where the sun would rise, but I found a few familiar stars. Orion is easiest because of his belt. One. Two. Three.
Then there was a shooting star!
Space debris. A cold rock. Superheating the atmosphere for a few seconds but the magic was I was looking up at 5 am in just the right place. My second shooting star of this fall. A lifetime of wishing, now finally seeing. Right place. Right time. Space debris.
The thought that woke me up? Much of my life may not be right place, right time. It is just what happened.
Much of it feels like cold space rocks. I make the ordinary magic to keep the gravity of everything slightly off my back. My chest often still feels tight.
Be yourself, but perform. Try harder, but be humble. Time heals all wounds, apparently. No apologies or repair required. The past shall be the past. Kindly stop carrying it.
The friction of contradictory instructions and expectations. Mismatch between the expected story and lived experience. Some mornings it sparks anger. My mind wants to DO something. Explain. Defend. Get my ass out of this fucking maze and get on with my life.
Peopling. Adulting. The whole winning-at-life routine. Sometimes I’m not in the fucking mood. Like this morning. Fucking great. See it but don’t see it. Everything is great. Everything is fine.
So I got dressed.
And enjoyed an early morning walk with Harris at daybreak, happy to be as alone at 6 am as one can be in a neighborhood that can’t seem to stop working on their damn houses and yards. So besides the bub bub bub of yet another damn pickup truck… the sound of local economy rolling…
The sky a soft, misty pink, orange, blue. The fog out on the marsh in ribbons. The land warmed by decomposition. Beauty made from rot. Moisture held in droplets in the air, skirting the cold sound water as it brightened, brightened, brightened by degrees.
The moon staying.
How does it seem to claim the sky, day or night? I play with my thoughts. I was taught to think the sun was dominant, the big flaming ball of gas and chemical reactions, but the moon has proximity and her orbit, while the sun, in her place, can dare to turn her back on us—knowing we’ll be faithfully there every day we can open our eyes and turn our heads. I know the science. I play with it. I create a reality and narrative. And feel a moment of relief.
Golden light. Autumn light.
Light light light light.
Why is it so damn hard to shut out the garbage? I think, as I pull the trash can up the driveway from the curb.
The garbage truck was probably what woke me up, not my thoughts or anger from having to live a life in contradiction.
But I found some beauty because of the rot and friction anyway.
I got to dance with my thoughts and draw constellations.
Maybe it was actually pretty shitty to be a Greek or Roman; that is why they had such great architecture, art and literature.
Overcompensation.
