Let me tell you about those meteors that didn’t quite shower like I thought they would:
1. Pwshiw. Pwshiw. This is how you described what they would look like from the city and I pondered first how sound creates images. Pwshiw. Falling stars appearing for less than half a minute, enough for you to be in constant awe of the next one. The sound you made to name it was spot on.
2. Craning one’s neck in the direction of the heavens for five hours during the wee hours of the day to glimpse a mere six meteors is quite like Sisyphus and his will-roll-right-back-down rock nut hey, I won’t complain.
3. I just wish I pressed the shutter like I knew I could. My settings were right, everything was perfect. The stars came out against a black night sky which is exactly how they should look in photos if you decide once and for all not to use the “starry sky” setting that just takes in more light at 30 seconds but keeps a stable ISO setting. It was perfect I tell you and even dad was surprised by my sudden ability to interpret camera speak that sometimes seems more Greek than the actual language…okay, I lie. Icelandic seems much more interesting than Greek and no amount of fuzzy symbols with ten times the language history would appeal more than Icelandic.
4. Why bother? It was space crap anyway. Comet feces, waste product…again, isn’t God so spectacular as to create beautiful things out of the most mundane and severely gross? Hmm, I don’t see myself peering into a toilet after my morning rounds but just think about it, I spent a good deal of my life out there in the balcony hoping for a miracle. Beautiful things are miracles and I expected that a shower of lights would be so enthralling that it might diminish the black hole that found its way past my wonder at the world.
5. Profound loneliness is the backbone of my stargazing experience for while I am filled with a compelling amount of awe and gratefulness, I can’t help but feel as though I might have met the abyss and spoken to it only to discover that no sound is echoed back. Ugh.
This is supposedly an experience list describing meteor viewing but as always, I digress. This might be less about those pshiws that mesmerized me. Instead this is geared toward the sky’s utter massiveness and emptiness, two qualities I find useful in describing the sad sea that I find myself swimming in. Yes, I’m swimming. None of that drowning business that’s so poignant and irreplaceable in Russian literature. I cannot drown and I know it, my name is not Russian enough to permit it.
Maybe sadness is a slight pshiw. It comes and goes, as bipolar as that might sound. Or maybe, it is greater than all of us. It might even be the very night sky we look at. Or wait, can it also be the tiny pieces of sky or stardust we find in our most basic components? It was scientifically proven that each of us is a tiny spec of space dust and while normally, again, I am in awe of this Universe, I can’t help but feel as if we were wired to be this way. To feel, as Atlas did, that the weight of the world balances on our tiny shoulders on account of our origins as bits and pieces of the abyss itself.
Perhaps I should learn to drink and ponder these existentialist tidbits with a swig of memory-altering vodka. Perhaps.