You light up my life.
You look down on me,
breathe through my body
as if I were wounded. Which,
of course I am. I know
this. Your breath is the
distinction between incar-
nation and condescension.
I have always appreciated
an inflamed desire, for
better or worse. Semi-
inflamed, I know is bet-
ter than worse, but I’ll
take it as hot as it gets,
with apologies to my
environment and those
in it (I am particularly ap-
ologetic to the objects of
such intense yearning).
Yes, it is better if it does
not throb so intensely,
bang so loudly, that it
drowns out my life (and
the lives of others). Moon
Face. You know me like
no other. The biggest my-
stery of you, ironically, is
that everyone knows you.
Intimately, in most cases,
right? Or believes they do.
I close my eyes and hear
Bowie making “ground
control” pretty floaty. It’s
a nice sensation. It goes
quite well with your breath in
my hair. And while that arouses
my senses, so to speak, I al-
ways have such trouble with
nostalgia. More to the point,
with other peoples’ perception
of my nostalgia. Because, in
all honesty, I’m not terribly
nostalgic when it comes
down to it. But many of
my obsessions or actions
have me looking backward
in time. But it is not out of
a desire to go back. Never.
It is a way to gauge where I
am, and whether that is where
I want to be. And if not, this
reflection helps me to alter
my course to a more approp-
riate direction. It all boils down
to hedonism, even the desire
to make the world a better place
than when I arrived in it; in my
belief, that is even possible. I
think of it as humanitarian
Darwinian evolution. We
are humans, after all. Pur-
portedly the most capable
of this planet’s animals. So
when I look back and study
last year. Two years ago.
A decade ago. Mulling over
pictures and diary entries and,
well, the few boxes of memora-
bilia that I used to possess,
I am literally examining my
present self in that light, and
trying to discern whether I’m
going in the right direction
(my assessment is, fortunately,
most often a resounding ‘yes’
to that, by the way, even through
the turmoil of the past few years).
But I do look back. Like at skipping
my 12th grade Novel Class in
high school, on many an occasion,
to drink sangria with Martha and
her mother next to her swimming
pool. While watching the latest episode
of Days of Our Lives, I might add. The
television would already be wheeled
out and in place by the time we arrived.
It was a thing. As often as this took
place, however, I remember getting
the award for best grade in that
class. I remember that we read
The Great Gatsby, Animal Farm
I have always appreciated
an inflamed desire, for
better or worse. Semi-
inflamed, I know is bet-
ter than worse, but I’ll
take it as hot as it gets,
with apologies to my
environment and those
in it (I am particularly ap-
ologetic to the objects of
such intense yearning).
Yes, it is better if it does
not throb so intensely,
bang so loudly, that it
drowns out my life (and
the lives of others). Moon
Face. You know me like
no other. The biggest my-
stery of you, ironically, is
that everyone knows you.
Intimately, in most cases,
right? Or believes they do.
I close my eyes and hear
Bowie making “ground
control” pretty floaty. It’s
a nice sensation. It goes
quite well with your breath in
my hair. And while that arouses
my senses, so to speak, I al-
ways have such trouble with
nostalgia. More to the point,
with other peoples’ perception
of my nostalgia. Because, in
all honesty, I’m not terribly
nostalgic when it comes
down to it. But many of
my obsessions or actions
have me looking backward
in time. But it is not out of
a desire to go back. Never.
It is a way to gauge where I
am, and whether that is where
I want to be. And if not, this
reflection helps me to alter
my course to a more approp-
riate direction. It all boils down
to hedonism, even the desire
to make the world a better place
than when I arrived in it; in my
belief, that is even possible. I
think of it as humanitarian
Darwinian evolution. We
are humans, after all. Pur-
portedly the most capable
of this planet’s animals. So
when I look back and study
last year. Two years ago.
A decade ago. Mulling over
pictures and diary entries and,
well, the few boxes of memora-
bilia that I used to possess,
I am literally examining my
present self in that light, and
trying to discern whether I’m
going in the right direction
(my assessment is, fortunately,
most often a resounding ‘yes’
to that, by the way, even through
the turmoil of the past few years).
But I do look back. Like at skipping
my 12th grade Novel Class in
high school, on many an occasion,
to drink sangria with Martha and
her mother next to her swimming
pool. While watching the latest episode
of Days of Our Lives, I might add. The
television would already be wheeled
out and in place by the time we arrived.
It was a thing. As often as this took
place, however, I remember getting
the award for best grade in that
class. I remember that we read
The Great Gatsby, Animal Farm
and A Brave New World (or
maybe it was 1984, since it
was, actually, 1984 at the time).
Whichever Orwell book it was,
what a prescient trio to read
in retrospect (see how this
works sometimes?). And
me all of sixteen years old
at the time, so ready to run
away from home to join the
circus that was college (this
is an understatement, both
the desire to run away from
home [forever!] and the com-
parison of my wonderful little
liberal arts enclave to a circus).
Before I know it, as these
thoughts swing through the
breeze and through me, and
by the time I remember that
it was just me and Moon Face
only moments ago, wouldn’t
you know it but the moon has all
but disappeared. The next morn-
ing I call Mom, for no reason but
to say hello. She, who lives
nearly 2,000 miles from the
spot I now call home, has to
inform me before I can say
anything at all that she had
a little talk with Moon Face her-
self last night. I could hear
the spark in her voice as she
mentioned it, so without say-
ing a word about the subject
of her conversation, I knew
it must have been special.
Now, ordinarily, I would get
a bit jealous (at least a bit)
of such a blatant disconnect
between me and my favorite
light o’ night friend (paramour,
was, actually, 1984 at the time).
Whichever Orwell book it was,
what a prescient trio to read
in retrospect (see how this
works sometimes?). And
me all of sixteen years old
at the time, so ready to run
away from home to join the
circus that was college (this
is an understatement, both
the desire to run away from
home [forever!] and the com-
parison of my wonderful little
liberal arts enclave to a circus).
Before I know it, as these
thoughts swing through the
breeze and through me, and
by the time I remember that
it was just me and Moon Face
only moments ago, wouldn’t
you know it but the moon has all
but disappeared. The next morn-
ing I call Mom, for no reason but
to say hello. She, who lives
nearly 2,000 miles from the
spot I now call home, has to
inform me before I can say
anything at all that she had
a little talk with Moon Face her-
self last night. I could hear
the spark in her voice as she
mentioned it, so without say-
ing a word about the subject
of her conversation, I knew
it must have been special.
Now, ordinarily, I would get
a bit jealous (at least a bit)
of such a blatant disconnect
between me and my favorite
light o’ night friend (paramour,
I would like to say, actually),
particularly if the attention
given me was diverted by
the likes of my own kith
and kin. But I simply
smiled this time, remem-
bering the walk back home
after being ignored the
night before (or lost in
thought). Or, I guess
you could just as easily
say that I was walking
away from home. It
just depends on which
way you think about it.
particularly if the attention
given me was diverted by
the likes of my own kith
and kin. But I simply
smiled this time, remem-
bering the walk back home
after being ignored the
night before (or lost in
thought). Or, I guess
you could just as easily
say that I was walking
away from home. It
just depends on which
way you think about it.
