I talked with a friend last night for a long time, about life and music videos and sadness that’s sometimes strangely elusive, getting misplaced somewhere in the depths but still there and how when you die, you’re not doing anything.
(He lost a pal when he was a kid.) “Of all the things, fear, loathing, terror…death trips me out.”
I went outside to look at the moon, up through the swampy murk. All day the sun had been seething through the wildfire haze, and nighttime brought a sepia tone to the sky.
Lower clouds hung nearly motionless, blobs of pond scum, sky algae. The waxing gibbous moon shone weakly through in a brown haze.
In the earthly pond, the cricket frogs chirped, the sound of marbles clattering in the humid night. A green frog twanged, a banjo string mellowed by soft mud, while the Chuck Will’s Widow bird sang his strange namesake song, much louder than his cousin the Whip Poor Will down by the creek. Ah, another one answering from the bee field.
I scanned the scene with some low power binoculars. The stand of pines, black against the dim gray moonlit woods, the tower on the ridge, blinking a smeared red in the vague night. (Or maybe that was just fog on my optics.)
The pond scum clouds drifted listlessly.
Above it all, the moon kept shining down, turning the mountain the idea of silver.
And here we are on earth, when it’s often smoky, creeping out on our own volition…
Looking up.
Keep at it, okay?
Keep looking up.
Treasures from Earth
Have some Horowitz. I’m out the door to spin records for some seniors. Happy Friday!