Blogging at Midnight

Well, it’s actually after 1 a.m. as I write this, but midnight has a nice ring to it, so allow me my little white lie.

At midnight, the world sleeps—okay not everyone, obviously, but for the most part that statement is true. The streets are rolled up, the shops are closed, the houses are dark, and the children are tucked into bed. There’s nothing good on television unless you luck out and find a decent movie. Books are iffy because your mind wanders and you re-read paragraphs, or have to start over the next day when you realize you don’t remember what you read. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I much prefer when the world is awake. Awake comes with all those lovely little noises that we tune out: traffic and doors slamming and teens playing their music and pre-teens threatening the teens. Even the sun makes noise I think.

The moon is mute.

Saturday’s perigee moon was amazing. The first full moon of the new year—the year of promises and dreams, the year that everyone hopes will be better than the last—and the moon seemed larger than the sky and was surrounded by the strangest halo I’ve ever seen.  Tonight’s moon is almost as big, has an autumn-like orange tint, and while it feels like it had something to say, it’s silent. More silent than it’s been in a long time. And lonely.

Artists and writers have been honing in on that fact for eons. The silence of the moon, nighttime on a whole, and the various ways it hits your introspective mind.  To some it’s peaceful, to others it’s scary. Some see the stars and possibilities they promise, others see the empty expanse of space and feel small and insignificant. I remember many a night when the moon held some mystic quality for me.  A low, seemingly larger moon. A halo moon. A red, autumn moon. Hell, I vividly remember attempting to get quality pictures of the moon as a teenager with my shiny new [used, but new to me] 35mm camera full of manual controls. None of the pictures turned out, but I tried nonetheless.

In the summer, moon or not, I would enjoy the sounds of night birds and crickets and frogs and even the noisy worms that roamed the garden area of the old house. But it’s winter—there are no nocturnal sounds of nature, unless you count the crackling of ice or the uncomfortable shifting of the bare limbs on the trees. And it’s a strange house, so the odd creaking here and groan there are slightly unsettling, though I’m starting to get used to them.  It’s too cold to go sit outside on the porch, so I stand by the window and look out. But just as there’s nothing to hear, there’s nothing to see out there… except that moon. That dreadfully solitaire orb of the ages. It doesn’t hurt your eyes to look at it, like its sister celestial body, but it can hurt the soul if you stare too long.

Maybe I’m just in the wrong mood. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s winter and I hate the cold and we have another five months of it. I don’t know. But I think I’ll close the curtains now, flip through the channels again and see if I can find some Jimmy Stewart. Or crawl into bed and wait for the sandman to club me over the head. Either way, I think I’ve had enough of this particular night sky and overly quiet lunar silence. Good night, Moon. Wake me up when it’s Spring.

Thoughts? Tell me what you think...

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