I’ve been in danger of backsliding, emotionally. Like the dog returns to its vomit, so the self-destructive artist returns to old addictions. I almost let myself slip back into that comfortable pattern, that unhealthy routine of cat and mouse. Sensing the danger ahead, I returned to the library of bruised hearts and reminded myself of every tear I cried on the matter, of every promise I made that I would do better for myself. It wasn’t a joyous romp along memory lane, but it was enlightening. And necessary. And I think I am cured.
I decided last night that I love outer space. I used to think that NASA was a terrific waste of money and that space exploration was useless ever since the cold war ended (and probably even during it.) Maybe it was that weird moment I had with the moon a couple nights ago, or maybe it was the beauty of the Universal logo spinning onto my TV screen last night, but suddenly my opinion has changed. We should totally explore the great unknown! We should step out of our terrestrial comfort zone into the celestial, as long as it is possible to do so and to every extent we can imagine. Why ever not? The way I figure now, as long as the war continues, there are certainly worse ways to spend money we don’t have.
Tonight as I was leaving my studio I looked up and I saw the moon, glowing with quiet determination behind a thick shroud of winter air. As I looked upon it I tried to imagine how far away the moon actually is–hundreds of thousands of miles, they say–but no matter how hard I thought about it I could only see the moon as this inch long cresent shaped thing floating just out of reach.
Just out of reach.