the lost man chronicles
book eight: A Message from the Moon
the nurturing pull of lunar levity
hopefully, you were aware and made time to behold, the earth eclipsing The Moon on Saturday evening. if you did, for a few minutes you may have felt as privileged as i did to be witness again to all these spectacular stellar events of late: mars, solar flares, auroras, and now this.
this morning there was an equally mesmerizing bosom of the full Moon looming like a calm matriarch in the clear blue sky. She was strangely positioned southwest where i had never seen Her before.
it occurred to me than that i likely owed a lot of gratitude to Her for the extra-giddy weekend.
She must have lightened the load with her counteracting pull of gravity which liberated me to enjoy a plethora of moments over the last two days.
the extensive list includes, but certainly was not limited to:
the kinky feel of rolling my bottom on the pellets inside a beanbag; my inaugural listen to Kristi Stassinpoulou, the Tilala Il-Nocturnal Ritual and Al Fraka Toure's the source; the smell of I-Hop's boysenberry syrup; massaging my teeth for 10 minutes with my new fancy Reach toothbrush—the raw and tingling feeling thereafter—the masochistic pleasure of swirling scotch whiskey about my freshly scraped gums—the tears I cried as it burned my flesh—holding the last swig till my mouth was completely numb; the icy-soft crunch of raspberry sorbretto; the sound-n-feel of the crunch-and-fold of autumn leaves beneath my feet; the magnificent translucent universe of pink jelly-fish contrasted against the dark deep blue of a million-million year old salt-water lake tucked away from civilization in the Palau islands; the pluck of the oud (an Egyptian string instrument which predates the lute) accompanying the spiritual voice of Hamza El Din chanting Anesigu; rediscovering the psychological infrastructure of guilt and manipulation astutely written into the script for Hard Eight; Najma's ethereal Pukar; a refreshing tall glass of young berry juice blended with Martinelli's sparkling apple cider and chilled with cracked ice— rapturously sipped through a bendable violet straw which matched the hue of the concoction; discovering how to slice off the bottom of an orange wedge to remove the membrane and extract the pulp; picking up and pressing leaves into my notebook; Sting's majestic contributions to the soundtrack of The Living Sea as heard in Dolby stereo; the magically soothing flute of Mektabi; dancing uninhibitedly to Fela's open & close album while making a fruit shake made of half-and-half, bananas, mango, freshly cut orange pulp, and frozen Georgia peaches; the cold firm feel of marble tile beneath my socked feet while looking out into the blue yonder; the smooth velvety cross of Ann-Margaret and Elvis in the duet "You're the Boss"; shamelessly indulging in Angelique Kidjo's Bahia; simply relaxing with my back atop half a beanbag and listening to music till I fell asleep dreaming of this living dream and then waking again to it.
the art of living the art of love