super-moon snooze

When I was a child, I used to think the moon was following me around at night.  No matter what direction my parents pointed the car, she'd still be there, in the sky, her eye on me.  This feeling persisted into my early 20s.  I remember waiting for a bus at Fillmore and Jackson near midnight when I was 20 years old, leaning against the church fence on a comfortable night and having that same sense of it's ok, the moon's got me. Later, on the 24 Divisadero, the feeling evaporated instantaneously thanks to the sexual ramblings of an old crazy man, a bus ride no different from any other.  I got off four stops early just to be free of his bullshit and walked the rest of the way home, eager to erase his noise, replace it with the cool bright of the moon.

Me and the moon, we're Like This.  We're tight.

She doesn't care at all that I slept through the whole super-moon business.

A note on the use of the feminine pronoun "she" and the possessive "her."  This use does not arise from some doofy god-was-a-woman sentiment (although believe me, I get that) but from the fact that in every other language I speak, the word for moon is gendered feminine.  It can't shake the gender imposed in the other tongues, other lenses, that occupy the other 3/4 of my brain.  So the moon is "she."  I can't do "it," that just doesn't make no sense.

Anyway, I slept through the entire super-moon.  Well, not exactly since I saw her this morning at 5, on my way out to accompany the dog on his morning eliminations.  I could complain long and loud about the necessity of this accompaniment, particularly when it's really, really cold or raining, but will instead confirm that we have a very very clean yard, in which you needn't be wary of where you set your feet since there is nary a landmine.

Sleeping through the super-moon is not something I planned on.  I had it in mind that perhaps we would go do this hike a friend's job was sponsoring, to which dogs were invited.  I had it in mind we would perhaps go wander the neighborhood with the moon fat and close.  But instead, before 8pm, I was sound asleep on the couch, that delicious tv sleep that is so hard to recreate once one moves to the bed.  Before 8pm.  

The super-moon honestly doesn't care, and is happy that I am finally, finally catching up on my sleep.  This whole week has been like that, actually.  I've missed my Fuck Yeah Early-Early Wake-up Time twice (slept through the alarm) and the other two days actually turned it off, resolved to wake up when I wake up, which appears to be between 4:45 and 5:15.  Today was 5, even though it's Sunday and theoretically I could sleep in.  Theoretically, because until my spine is fixed, being in bed any longer than 4 or 5 is a torture I cannot bear.  Most nights, in my repeated wake-ups (11, 1, 3), I long for it to be 4, since 4 seems reasonable and 4 is the earliest I let myself drink coffee.  Except for pain, I feel pretty great this morning, awake at 5, almost light out now that it's close to 6, the dog has eaten and gone back to bed, Joe is gone all day racing in Turlock (seriously), a long day stretches out ahead of me, filled with potential.

But I might just read a book until it's done.  This book The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey has me completely captivated right now.  If I stayed still until 8, I might have it finished.  Then I could go out into the glorious garden morning, watch what the bees do today since the poppies are, in one day, already done, petals on the ground.

For now, book it is.  

Wishing you a beautiful Sunday and nights of plenty of sleep, no matter how fat and close the moon is.  She doesn't care if we pay attention.  She'll just keep doing her thing, rising, falling, glowing, no matter how close or far from the earth, no matter her size.