Red Moon, Right as Rain

According to Mavis Clemholler, masseuse/matriarch/scientific prognosticator, of South Dakota, the upcoming red moon will trumpet the end of days. According to the scientific evidence, for the worthy, the righteous, the chosen, armies of angels are on standby, checking and rechecking Santa's list, preening and culling the list of those that will be swooped up and taken to a better place. I, in a magnanimous gesture, have asked Gabriel to remove my name. Why, you ask, would I not want to be included? Read on.

Life is like a 1st grade recorder concert. Each note, both collectively and individually, is a beacon of possibility, and a different one for each student and each parent. For each student that successfully navigates the score, there is a student that forgets where he/she is. For each perfect D-flat, there is the atonal squeal of over-breathing. The resulting cacophony contains infinite moments, each signalling the end of days for each of us, and the ascent to paradise, the next moment.

We, as human beings, are not hardwired to comprehend the infinite changes in our lives. We cannot see the reality that arises from the undesired D-flat to A-sharp flutter. We may remember the concert, we may remember our child's smiling glance, we may remember how proud we were, or how embarrassed. But we can never process how an errant B-flat leads us, through a myriad of resultant consequences, to the best blowjob your partner has ever blessed you with.

We all tend to look at life through the big picture. But no painting is static. Paintings are dynamic, evolving, an infinite number of brush strokes from burnt umber to beyond ultraviolet; an unwanted speck of dust to a desired layering; a blending of the unforeseen and the intended. We are all a painting, and all part of each others paintings. Our masterpieces can never be foreseen or foretold. We will never know what they will look like when we finally lay down our brushes.

I sail my ship in uncharted waters. At this moment, there is a pirate ship, a sloop I think, sailing alongside. The vast, turbulent oceans of possibility are always blended by the wind and currents. Yet my pirate and I are stirring the waters with our evolving keels. I have let go of my wheel, and where the winds of my life will lead me, I do not know. I only know that the waves behind me, and the waves ahead, will change before my eyes. The future, and the past, are not here, not now, not ever.

My pirate and I will sometime find many places, undiscovered and unimagined. The canvas of our sails and our paintings is clear and clean, vibrating in the ether. The notes of our recorder concerto are unscored and undetermined. I will stand in it, own it, stay open to it until and beyond my next end of days; till my next red moon.