Thoughts on werewolf habits and the similarity of mangoes and oysters — the after effects of a full moon on my psyche as a writer.
That sun is hot enough to bake you black, or in my case a deep brown, brown enough like the camel colored hide of my closed-toed heels. Legs bleeding into the tan of my shoes, arms bleeding into the tan of my tank top, I feel like a gecko in Arizona dust, visibly invisible in my clever camouflage.
This is not Arizona, but Detroit, Michigan where I, with my latest W.P. Kinsella (R.I.P) book, sit marooned in the middle of my feelings and a slumbering homeless man on the patio of a bagel shop. He’s got a large book open to some page chosen by a light breeze that’s been on steady decline since 9:30 am.
I wonder how dark the man’s dark skin can get under the sun. I wonder if he’ll have a stiff neck having stuck in that position for so long, or if he’s slept here all night; if he’s actually reading that large book in front of him or if it’s more of a pillow. I wonder if we have more in common than this shared space – like how spiritual and material lack vibrates at the same frequency. He wakes briefly, as if my thoughts are that loud, and greets me, but I know he can’t see my eyes behind my even blacker shades, so I stay silent. I’m too tan and naked to be humoring his kindness. I neglected to wear a bra. His eyes are smiling in the direction of my tits.
The air stills, sticks to my skin like this tiny spider biting the top of my foot. I brush it off, surprised by the lingering pain of a bug no bigger than a granule of pepper.
“Isn’t it amazing what such a small amount can do?” A friend said that, a friend who facilitated my recent escapades in acid. Having taken it for the first time, I started small – half a square, then the next day, half of a half – learning where the drug wanted to take me and then settling in — my mind finding a place as pleasant, focused, and wild as the weight of a full moon. Just like that. Feels just like that, like, something so cerebrally stimulating — the conscious mind lunges, fights to be released from its tether; the body, so physically grounded, present, oh so present, yet mindlessly moving — chaos operating the base level mechanics of existence for this brief walk between worlds. It’s a distance, a vibrancy, a feeling like there’s no earthly way to contain nor release all the energy accumulating in ones spirit – the body radiating with spirit; creative, nurturing, moody, watery; The High Priestess; sorcery beyond the comprehensible; silver, iridescent, omnipresent – if there were a word or phrase to encapsulate all these things…
“I feel like I’m tripping,” I said, reverent under the silent effects of a full moon in Sagittarius, defining the feeling came as a revelation. Last night the rest of the world was prepping for parties, car accidents they didn’t know they’d have, emotional run ins, fall outs, over consumption, overflow — I opted to avoid it all, the people, the parties. Instead, I put to use the tools acid had given me, identifying, learning, and settling into the power of the lunar event about us.
Full moon nights are like this for me. The eb and flow of feels consumes me and I become something like a werewolf who’s only duty of the evening is to avoid mutating. Personal preservation and safety become my top priorities. I secluded myself and wait for the sediments of my former self to settle; wait for the creative outburst. Waiting through it is key. Still very wolf-like inside my skin, I center in my feels, breath deep, sleep soundly, and hope to process all what occurred in the subconscious sometime, later.
A dream I had recently went against this urge to stay inside. In it, I thought I could handle social events under a full moon; went out with a few friends and end up ripping them all to shreds – blood glinting on large white teeth and claws, dripping from my matted fur, congealing under the indifference of city street lights. As a werewolf, I felt guilt, horror, and regret in strict conjunction to the lust of blood and murder. Hence, trusting ones intuition on a full moon night – also key. Mine said to go on a lone bike ride at dusk.
A light rain cooled the air, made the concrete smell fresh, damp; the skies were calm and welcoming. I pedaled down the river-walk and wove my way through people I trusted because they too were out on an evening like this, cleansing their souls under the same rain, the same billowy clouds lined in orange, pinks, and vibrant lavender. Never have I seen a more photo-esque sky, yet I’d chose to leave the camera at home. True experience can never be felt looking through the other end of a lens.
Stopping on the river walk somewhere near a view of the Renaissance Center and the sea green steeple of some distant church, I couldn’t remember the last time I starred at the sky or listened to the world around me free of digital devices or connections that never really connect. That sky was love, I felt safe under it. That full moon made the world new again and I felt blessed to be alone and noticing.
But I’m losing it now, the effects fading. It’s past noon and I can feel myself coming back, the me I carry daily, this heavy body, this over-thinking brain. The words are slowing. I’ll share this with you now, re-read it and wonder from what secret deep it came. I’ll miss the me I was only moments ago. I’ll miss the moon.
When there’s something to write, I never think about it, I just do. What I think about is when I’m not doing it, but it’s like I’m always waiting on the moon, my muse. Isn’t that life though? Like, I’m always waiting for something — this coffee to cool, my heart to stop hurting. It’s never going to change, is it? And yet, we all keep moving because cycles are ritual. Yes, I do see the value in ritual. I live mine by the phases of the moon.
Before I go, I’d like to share this with you, too.
The other day while snipping parsley for a salad, I snipped a lady bug in two. I had to sift through the salad to find its severed body. I’m still not sure why that made me feel so odd. Currently, I’m slicing the meat of a mango. Large pieces wiggle in my fingers and when I place them in my mouth they slide down my throat like an oyster. Thinking of mangoes and oysters as one in the same makes me feel funny.
What do you make of these funny feelings? Sometimes I feel like I may wait forever to gaze at another and trust in love enough to describe how thinking of mangoes and oysters as one in the same makes me feel more connected and severed than ever before. Sometimes I feel like I will never love or trust in another as much as I love and trust in the moon, or that another could never love me as much as that sky last night. I tell you I heard it whispering my name, kissing my forehead, telling me the universe will forever have my back.
I wonder who out there felt that, too.