Lunistice and Summer Solistice

Last Thursday was the solstice, so I suggested that we hike up Spencer Butte and watch the not-quite-full moon rise before the sun set. In a different world, Mark and I would meet our gay pagan coven at the top for high ritual drumming and dancing; however in this world it was just us, lemon-honey-ginger tea, and macaroons. And my camera. And hippie-lite Eugene.

I may or may not have intoned intentionally trite couplets with poor meter while making vaguely mystical passes with my upraised hands and a spacey look on my face. Mark may or may not have said sarcastically, “that’s so hot.”

Spencer Butte is a Eugene City park. It’s not too much of a climb, but it is a good indicator of how in shape one is. We took the easy route up, mostly because I’ve sprained my wrist and I didn’t want to slip scrambling up the steeper side of the butte and re-injure myself.

The parking lot was full-ish, but we found a parking stall. The number of folks were evenly split between jogging attire, hiking attire, and hippie attire. As we hiked up the path, several scantily clad men wearing chunky jewelry descended; so I’m guessing we must have missed any Gay Pagan Men’s ritual at the butte’s peak.

We walked among the cedars on the east side of the butte in twilight, but the growing Earth-shadows had not yet become one night. In some corner of my mind, Suzanne Vega’s “Night Vision” played. There’s arched stone causeway which lends itself to one of us shouting “Smooching Bridge!” which is followed by smooching.

It was around 8:15 when we achieved the peak and daylight. The climb wasn’t too bad, but I will admit that the stairs at the end were challenging.

A group of loud folks coalesced at the end of the trail. Four vultures perched on a snag near by, and I took some photos of them. One by one they launched themselves into an updraft rising on the northwest side of the butte.

The old fire spotting station site freed up, and we managed to snag a seat on the flat triangle of concrete at the butte’s highest point. A stranger and his dog, Rico, joined us to get away from the jabbering crowd.

The haze to the east surprised us. Mark thought it was pollution stirred up by the 85F plus temperature. If you squinted, you could make out the Three Sisters. The sun was still about a handspan above Fern Ridge Reservoir on the western horizon.

The shadow of Spencer Butte stretched away from us, and I realized that it would be pointing in the general direction of moonrise. I had forgotten that the moon was at its lunistice, so it rose to the right of the butte’s shadow, about as far south as possible for it to rise. At first, you couldn’t see the moon as it rose just a little north of Mount June: its white dome blended in with the eastern haze. Slowly it inched upward until it broke away and hung over Mount June’s peak.

We turned around. The setting sun reflected off of Fern Ridge Reservoir, turning the western horizon into molten red gold.

We at the macaroons; they were a mélange of artificial flavors and aftertastes. We drank the tea, which was supposed to be summery and fiery; I liked it, Mark thought it was too sweet, but it did wash out the synthetic taste of the macaroons.

I took photos, pausing every now and then to appreciate what was going on directly. In a different time, I might have been drumming; in a different time, I might have chanted “Isis / Astarte / …” ; or walked a spiral lit with candles ignited with flame from the sun’s rays.

But just before the sun set, we started down the butte, descending into the twilight trees and not lingering at any potential smooching sites so as not to be caught in the parking lot in full night.

Our car joined the caravan of other cars heading back to Eugene. As Blanca Paloma sang AEAE (“…may they bury me on the moon / so that I might see you every day / every day but one…”) I spied a heart shape at the wooded side of the road: a three-point deer with its antlers arcing over its head.

Shiftless Youth

Lately, the alley near our house has become a popular hang-out for an octet of shiftless charter-school kids to take a noisy off-campus lunch. Aside from their litter, it would be more tolerable if they weren’t so loud and crude. Unfortunately, the fence they like to congregate at seems to reflect their conversations our way. 

Luckily, we’re not adjacent to the alley, so it’s not so intrusive (or late-night) than it was at our old rental near the fairgrounds—still, one can resort to pretending one is narrating an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom only so many times.

While I do have some fantasies about high altitude ballistic water balloons, perhaps purchasing a few more loud wind chimes is in order as an antidote to their scintillating congress. I believe I’m obligated to come out in slippers and a plaid bathrobe and shout, “Hey, you kids…!”

I much prefer the Lycanthropic Tea-Time Ritual Children. Even if they do interrupt my afternoon writing, they have a more elevated (if shrieked) vocabulary.

New Books from Powell's

About a month ago, I went to Portland for DrupalCon, a convention focused on Drupal, the open source platform for many of the web servers where I work. I picked up some technical information, had a few “aha” moments (and a couple of “grr” ones) over how things are done at work, and it was a good chance to network with coworkers in other departments.

During one of my free evenings, I managed to shop at Powell’s Books. I haven’t been to Powell’s in over five years, at least. When I was at Reed, we would have occasional pilgrimages to Powell’s Books; the place seemed larger and more labyrinthine then. We used to just wander through the stacks any which way, and it seemed like there was always hidden treasure on every shelf. This time around I felt a little rushed and presented with more dross. Maybe I’ve gotten more picky.

I purchased a large bag full of mostly science fiction and fantasy, two books on "Magickal Mixology", and two books about medieval cathedrals (research!). Alas, when I got back, I discovered that one of the cathedral books had been cut up a bit by a scapbooking monster previous to selling the book to Powell’s. The fiction books were fine; I managed to pick up “The Calculating Stars,” by Mary Robinette Kowal, which I’ve enjoyed; the cozy “Legends and Lattes” books, which were refreshingly light; a recent-ish anthology of Valdemar short stories, which were diverting; a collection of David Sederis essays, which I haven’t gotten though yet, and some other books in the to-be-read pile. So far the only book I have’t been enchanted with is an anthology of short stories loosely based on Oregon folklore, which was a staff pick, so I’m giving it more of a chance, although it seems to be less “folklore” and more “campfire gothic.”

It’s nice to be reading fiction again—or rather, it’s nice to be reading things that are a bit more current than “Magic’s Pawn,” “War for the Oaks,” “Foundation,” or “Talking to Dragons.” Which I love; but I suspect one reason my writing sounds like it’s from the 1980’s is that I default to older books and stories that are comfortable when I’m not reading more modern works.