That Monday lunar eclipse was the first time I looked at the moon through binoculars. I could clearly make out the rabbit’s ears and the tilt of its body embedded in the craters. Once, at the Griffith Observatory, I wore sunglasses to see the moon through the telescope because the reflection of the Sun was bright enough to scorch your eye. I couldn’t see the rabbit or Coalxauhqui, it was just pure light.
I used the binoculars at the moment the eclipse begun. The penumbra, the shadow on the edge of her skirt, another hour or two before the blood would seep through. I went to bed, didn’t set an alarm to wake me for the event because there is a new schedule in this household, one that calls for uninterrupted sleep.
I wear an emerald engagement ring. It enhances the impact of my zodiac. On early Tuesday morning, it led me out of our bed to watch the white crescent grow over an otherwise sepia moon. Through the green leaves of the garden and in the company of tireless song birds, I understood the lesson: not all moments are meant to be shared.
I take a lot of solace and inspiration from people who belong to one cultural formation and who have the courage to turn a very critical eye on that formation.
He was overcome by awe, sadness and the birds’ physical beauty: their bright auburn breasts, slate-gray backs and the dusting of iridescence around their napes that, depending on the light and angle, appeared purple, fuchsia or green.
All I’m saying is, there’s no substitute for being sculpted by life. You need to feel the pain, or the absence, or the presence of something evil or whatever it is, and then you need to articulate that through film or novels or painting or whatever craft is available to you.