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Well, there may be no moon inside right now, though there used to be. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride them over the moon in my heart. If there were a moon in there.
If there were a moon inside, it could crowd out the rising tide of anger (don't read the political news, I keep telling myself) and all the other non-productive emotions that flow and ebb inside me and that obviously would engulf the moon inside—if there were a moon inside.
Can a moon and its reflected light be engulfed? Can it be drowned by the waters of emotion that flow and swoosh within? Or does the moon withstand all those watery tides and sit waiting in me until the raging surf dies down? As it will, of course.
The moon inside. She's the calming force, that silver crescent, that silver rocker, that argentine globe. She is our symbol of change; each night something different for the delight of our weary eyes. Each night a little bigger or a little smaller. On rising she often hangs above the horizon like a giant pumpkin, so much larger than when she's overhead. And then another night she doesn't appear at all, rising and setting before we even think to look, or long after we're in bed dreaming our dreams of airplanes that taxi endlessly, never soaring, never even approaching the height of the night's eye.
Wait. Go back to that airplane. If a plane doesn't get off the ground, is it any less an airplane? That plane/train taxied endlessly last night in my dream, taking us from downtown "
And through this we trudged, following the heroine and her abductor, as the spy plane also followed them. Then they turned around and we met them as they trudged again through the mud toward "home." The heroine told us we really had to continue, for the view beyond the tunnel was worth the trip. It would change us.
On we went. Once out of the tunnel we were on a slow-moving train, watching the passing scenes, waiting for the one spectacular life-changing view the heroine had told us we would see.
We saw a landscape outlined in neon blue. We saw that blue change to gold. We saw a many-branched bare tree with eight or ten vultures hunched on its limbs. And we saw a pack of medium-sized black dogs cavorting before their home. When asked, someone said they were "Navigators." And I thought, "Oh, yes. I saw one of those Navigator dogs just last week." But we never did see the life-changing view the heroine had told us about.
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