Meeting the Man in the Moon

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Meeting the Man in the Moon

“The hermit doesn't sleep at night, in love with the blue of the vacant moon. The cool of the breeze that rustles the trees rustles him too.”

   When I was a lad, my parents often spoke of moons and insisted that I share in their gawk and wonder. But Hall and Margy were still young, filled with romance, and certain of a better tomorrow. That child's moon is one of the few images that remains ... and reappears not to haunt, nor evoke melancholy, but to remind.

   My mother is now a memory, and sadly one that few can any longer conjure. Gazing out the sunroom window at tonight's Blue Moon, I see Margy at thirty. She takes my hand as we carefully climb out my bedroom window, to sit on the roof's banquette. The conversation is now lost but that night is still clear. I still feel the brisk chill and the frisson of such a rooftop caper, albeit sanctioned and not one of misbehavior. That, my friends, was the evening I first met the "man in the moon" ... well rather, I was able to discern his jolly face.

   Of course, being a five year old, I was given nevertheless to some primal stereotypes. I have since discovered that the "man in the moon" is most likely a woman (thank you, Bea Arthur) and that, in her infinite wisdom and most strategic of panoramas, she was probably pouting or reacting to some misstep of humanity with disdain. But that night in Chapel Hill, she was beaming right at me, neither glibly nor in mockery. I remember that face well for it has long since guarded my imagination and late night flights.

   It is now almost five decades since that Autumnal night. I have since learned and forgotten all the discourse on phases, tides, crescents, and orbits. Like most of us, I take my lunar reverence lightly, only shallowly looking to the dark sky when it suits me. I may walk into the my garden late at night, guided by the moon's shimmer and the pathway it casts. Yet, I rarely look up. Despite its lunar grandness, even the tenuous blooms of spring usually blossom with more fanfare. Except, of course, when the mood or need arises unexpectedly or when I pointedly seek out the face of an old friend.

   Tonight, I yearn for such comfort and nostalgia. I crave the moon.

   Mind you, I am not jaded: I am well aware of each view's uniqueness. The moon may be the same but its very angle and the haze through which I peer are never precise ... nor are they identical. When its phase has so deemed, each moon debuts, like some "inner" galactic newborn. Tonight's is indeed the "Gerber baby" of such faces. It is round and plump, with perfect cheeks and arched brows.

   It's that very face I remember from when Margy and I were on the roof that night back in '62. And it seems as though my friend recognizes me as well. As I look out the window again it is positioned clearly above the pine trees no longer struggling for a clear view ... as if shouting: "It's me. It's me! Don't you recognize me, Mark?"

I'd know that moon anywhere, my friends, but I wonder how many I have forgotten.
(Image: "the Man in the Moon" by Daniel Merriam)
- 29 October 2011
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6 months ago Deenie Baceda Ickringill (Facebook) responded:

Lovely story ~ so reminds me of my childhood❥
Mark Dylan Sieber's Space

The sandbox is always open, my friends, for those that want to share eclectic musings, surrealist images, and aural delights.
I detect the melody of the written word and can visualize the beat in the song. That's perhaps why I think in ringtones and post in sound-bites.
But, most of all, I celebrate the moments and the small splendors that enrich our soul.
The sandbox here at Marklewood is flanked in the corners by large bronze urns of yellow peonies & azure-blue lobelia. Behind it is a meandering creek lined with ancient willows.
And if we run scarce of provisions, there is always the bait shop down the dirt road.
My spirit navigates freely from that of Pied Piper to bookworm to Lord Fauntleroy to that of a Bohemian crusader. You best pour a healthy cup of coffee or glass of pinot noir.
I am a disengaged designer, scribe, and recidivist currently living in the hinterlands of Raleigh, North Carolina. I strive to be kind and I seek out those moments of hope that indeed refuel my soul. Often, the most potent of inspiration is found in random human connections, unexpected art finds, and the magic that cloaks our world.
And, yes, we have pets here at Marklewood: a dozen at most recent census. I refer to them fondly as the Twelve Noble & Apostolic Pusses, but they are much more than any label or moniker would suggest. All are indeed rescues or their progeny, with five having been elevated to "indoor" status. The other seven serve sentry here in the stillness of an ancient pine woods.
Alas, poor Tartuffe has been missing since May of '10. Legend has it that he has embarked on some grand theatrical adventure, perhaps in New York. But I like to think that his spirit hovers over head.
"I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.” -- Arthur Rimbaud

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