Sitting out there, the weather was perfect, exactly the same temperature as it was inside, and I could hear crickets 100 feet away, which is what I love about Brooklyn. There's no way in hell you could hear a cricket 100 feet away in Manhattan. Here was my view:
It was quiet, the beer was cold, the Dunhill was smoky, and the moon was waxing gibbous. Started thinking about how completely insane it was that we landed men out there almost forty years ago, then I started thinking about the nonsensical inanity of our astronauts finally getting out there after countless generations dreaming about setting foot on the moon, and what did they do? They hit a golf ball.
I'm not a big fan of golf, so it seemed like a ridiculous thing to go tens of thousands of miles and hit a golf ball just to see how far it would go. Being an ex-hippie, I would have thrown a disc golf disc. Which is quite lame in and of itself.
But I remember a time that, being a Cancer, I was infatuated with the moon. So cold, so distant, so magical. Especially if you were a fan of Tom Robbins. There was even a time when I strongly considered getting a tattoo of the full moon on the inside of my upper arm, when I was a passionate mid-twenty year old. The moon held so much power, and an infinite sense of mystery. When the moon was full, I acted strangely and I didn't know why. It still happens.
So, sitting on the deck tonight, I was suddenly content with the feeling that I was in a place where the moon became a fantastic imaginary locale to throw a disc golf disc. I imagined how far it would fly. Would it ever land?
And now I'm concerned. Have my thoughts become trivial in my older age? Have I stopped thinking as deeply? Have I become a corporate astronaut? Was my life somehow more interesting when I valued the mystery over the possibilities?
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