On most nights, or at least a good portion of nights, (and I have no way of verifying this, of course) I leave my clumsy body in my bed and rise upward through the ceiling. I assume I’m just composed of energy during this period, because my body doesn’t interact with the physical world, and I pass right through all the spiders and cockroaches that are presumably gambling and engaging in very small illicit behavior. Light passes through me in much the same way as light penetrates a shadow. It’s fairly pleasant, because I never have a stomach ache or stiff joints.
I rise higher still, ascending like a kind of formless eyeball, upward toward the night sky. Sometimes I see migratory birds and night owls. I used to try and get their attention by spiritually winking at them or trying to otherwise telepathically invite their attention, but I think the call of magnetic north was sort of overpoweringly distracting for them.
Sometimes I do, and sometimes I do not pass through the clouds. I rather like this section, so I actually prefer an overcast night. Things are very quiet in a thick bank of clouds, and since I don’t have the limitation of being a certain size, per se, I can become very small and particular and watch raindrops being formed and released from the buoyant safety of a cloud. Once I saw huge sheets of snowflakes formed but unreleased. I didn’t realize they actually have to take a number, line up, get authorized to fall, and then depart from the cloud. There’s really a lot more paperwork and care into weather patterns than most people realize.
Despite various attempts at extreme concentration or trying to energetically “swim” up or down, I seem to have no control about the rate at which I ascend, so I basically just enjoy the scenery in the clouds while I can. Once I pass through, I travel upward for some period of time that’s hard to measure. I am obviously moving at what best seems described as a “drift”, sailing up and away from the Earth. At some point after my slow departure, where I see the Earth get smaller and less useful-seeming, I make it through the very-boring-but-actually-nice-in-it’s-own-way hollow vacuum of space. Here, I move right on by the regular moon, until I finally touch down, at last motionless, on the true moon, composed of disorganized energy, noble intentions, unfinished songs, and of course, broken hearts of teenagers.
The true moon is so close to the regular moon that it gets mistaken for the highly visible, highly public “moon”, of note. I settle on the surface, and our conversations circle around similar themes, each night. Moon tells me that despite the fact that Moon is the one affecting the tides and providing the invisible rope-ladders to poetic idiots all over the earth, everyone fawns over the iridescent pearl, a grossly exaggerated and frankly gaudy ball, says Moon.
“It’s not enough for me to be good, I want to appear good.” Moon laments. But even Moon’s wistful thoughts are lined in ethereal chuckling.
I tell Moon about my day, and bemoan the fact that despite all of my manic tail-chasing, I can’t seem to parse out the universe, or even how it was constructed and why.
The True Moon laughs because celestial bodies find that almost everything is worth chuckling over. I suspect Moon sees that my grasping for Truth (capital “T”, here)is not a quest that will bear fruit, like trying to build a ship out of water. She usually tells me not to worry about it because it really doesn’t matter, and isn’t it enough that your shoes magically stay tied and that NOT ONCE has your blood all evaporated from your body, leaving you a pile of limp tissue and bones?
Sometimes Moon pretends to portend my death, but I assume it’s just a joke, because I’ve yet to die in any of the predicted circumstances. It’s hard to tell if Moon just has a weird sense of humor, or if there’s some funny subtext to what is being shared.
“Michael, I am real, too.” Moon says, stifling a laugh. “Make sure you tell your friends that I’m real, too.”
“Well, I’ll try, but it’s sort of a ridiculous thing to tell people. Most people are probably not going to be receptive to the idea of a True Moon and a False Moon.” I say. “Tell the universe to send me more clear-cut indicators of what’s really going on. I need better clues.”
Then I spring off the moon, sailing back down toward my dumb body, resting there, probably dreaming of sex or go-karts. I cruise back down, often around 5:00 AM, stirring myself awake for a moment, and then spend an hour or so waiting for him to wake up for real. We have a lot to learn, the Moon and I.