Old Moon Musings

Saturday. If I want my writing skills to stay sharp, I need to join a group of writers for a morning online Zoom writing session by eight. If I’m Zoom writing at eight, I need to be back from a session working my abs, pecs, biceps, and quads at the YMCA around seven. If I want to be back by seven, I need to start clinking weights and exercise machines in the Y shortly after six. If I want to be at the Y by six, I have to physically arise from bed at five thirty, take my old-man-actuarial-pills, and eat a protein bar so I’m not crashing in the middle of a standing cable pull from dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, and hypoglycemia. And if I want oatmeal for breakfast after my workout, I need to boil the water, then add steel-cut oatmeal, brown sugar, cinnamon, and cloves, and then turn the burner off before I leave for the Y.

Somewhere during all of this is Visiting the Euphemism, petting the animals, and kissing Mark — Oh. Yes. And moving the Sun, Moon, and Day pegs in Portable Stonehenge.

This morning from the driveway, I saw a slim crescent moon beneath Venus (and Spica) just above the jagged, evergreen horizon. Then I got too close to my neighbor’s house and the porch light blazed. I flinched like a vampire and threw up a hand. “Damn light.”

I saw them again in the Y’s parking lot, and took the long way through the stalls, dodging light poles, to where I could see brilliant Venus, the dark sky, and the darker smudge within the sliver of the moon: its horns pointing away from the sun still beneath the horizon.

I went into the Y, to the machines.

Sometimes a cog turns. Sometimes a bell rings. Sometimes pendulums trace an interference pattern like a circle or a star or lace.