You ever notice the way things intensify around a full moon? I had a college roommate who was a firm believer in howling at the moon at this critical point in the lunar cycle; I joined her on occasion, and I have to say, it was enormously therapeutic. Screaming or howling or raising one’s voice against the dark often is powerfully cathartic – it marks a protest, a ‘raging against the dying of the light’ in more ways than one.
It’s not a stretch for me to imagine that we human beings – though we fancy ourselves immune to such base instincts and natural forces – react to the shifting tides and the implacable cycles of the moon. Why wouldn’t we? We know other animals respond to elements of the physical universe; why wouldn’t we? They don’t call it ‘lunacy’ for nothing, people! Llew always scoffs at my full moon theory – being that everything goes screeching off the hinges – but it’s hardly original. And okay, some of those people who believed in moon madness in days of old also believed in phrenology, and a flat earth, and the irretrievably corrupt souls of the left-handed among us… but still, this particular concept doesn’t seem so crackpot to me. I think you could casually interview any group of people huddled beneath your average bus shelter and find some fair anecdotal ammunition. Sure, sure, the stuff of wives’ tales, you may say, but… sometimes wives’ tales are true.
I’m just saying.
Because boy, has this week leading up to the full moon been a humdinger – I’m almost surprised no one’s driven a car through the side of my apartment. And I’m amazed to realise it’s been an entire week since I last posted, really amazed, but on reflection, I might have guessed I’d end up in some kind of time warp too. That’s just like the moon, casting this kind of spell on me. I haven’t been able to keep track of what day it is because I’ve been too busy ogling its fat face, watching it approaching its zenith as though I were leading a Cape Canaveral countdown.
It’s exhausting. All the tension in the crowd. Everyone craning their rubbery necks for a glimpse at that distant pockmarked lunar surface. All the malicious behind-the-scenes whispers of budget cuts, mechanical failure, and rank incompetence from the top down. Will I take off or tank? Take off or tank? Take off or tank? Take off or –
Yep. I tanked.
I tanked right across the board, really made it count. They’ll be finding shrapnel in Inuit moccasins left by the entrance to the igloo for months to come. When I bomb, I like to bomb big. I’ve always loved mushrooms, after all.
I won’t bore you with the details of all the ways in which my week was a steaming turd, I’m going to just have to ask that you take my word for it (quite likely the sole word I’ll ever have accepted by anyone, anywhere). But it was a comprehensive dump, the sort you see starting when some dog owner thoughtfully leaves it smoking on the footpath, and then some hapless early morning jogger accidentally kicks a chunk down the street a ways, and then some super pram minces the remaining pile through its wheels and tracks it down the path for another couple of hundred metres or so, at which point a woman rushing to a job interview skids in it because she’s wearing new heels and isn’t looking, and then she scrapes it onto the grass, cursing and hissing and obscurely blaming her sick mother, at which point I come along, whistling and clicking my heels, and witlessly lie down in it. There you go. That was my week.
(The only good news is significantly positive, in that Baby J hasn’t staged an untimely exit from what I can gather. Even if I am covered in shit.)