I was hoping to see a red moon tonight, rrrreally hoping to. I missed the last one because there were too many clouds in the sky. I thought to myself: “How often does one get to see a moon looking like that?”, even though I am not physically capable of seeing the moon clearly without the help of curved glass in front of my eyes, and I don’t currently own curved glass to put in front of my eyes.
But I at least wanna see the red, ifinz I can. I like it when things are different colours. Craving different experiences or something. Want to see red moon. Almost primal. Could just be primal. So I did the closest thing I could do to being primal when I found out about This Particular Red Moon and clicked on the “Going” button on a little Facebook event which invited me to join a bunch of local folk going up a rock pile to view this sky-phenomenon.
The other thing going on in my mind was that this is the third eclipse in the space of a few months (lunar then solar now lunar again), and this mind is a little blown by that. I have no memory of such quick succession of eclipses in my lifetime. Despite my general inclination towards researching facts like this, tonight I am not willing to research if my memory is correct, because instead of going to that rock pile in the middle of All Nations Park, I ended up spending much of the afternoon and subsequent evening in a recording studio in Preston.
Reason? Further witness to/documentation of a band who decided to call themselves WASP (no, it does not stand for anything, and yes, the name was chosen with no idea of the 80’s metal band sporting over it a very, very similar looking acronym with which to be known).
I went to Sydney with WASP a little while back, 10 hours in a car each way to follow this ridiculous improvised goth-doom-pop band (P.Bibb’s words, not mine, he plays drums in this thing) to the city from where two of the members originally hail. They played shows, I sat at a table taking people’s money for one of said shows, I sat in various other spaces taking sound recordings and filming some things, mostly.
The band decided to attempt to record their always improvised intensity for the first time this week, and tonight, of all nights, was the night.
I was thinking of blood moon many times throughout this sit-in, waiting for the opportunity to see this thing I had visualised from last season’s descriptions and digital experience-capturation of the event. I was also thinking about the role of the historian in society because I have an upcoming assignment on the topic (reporter vs analyst?). I was thinking about Presentism: to view history from the perspective of the time in which your feet are planted firmly. How it doesn’t appear to be respected by academics in the slightest. I can certainly understand why.
University is fun.
I just wish I could pace it a little slower.
Maybe that’s why so many young people go to Germany to study: it’s so fkn cheap to live there, cheap to study there. You can learn and think all you want while you do all the creation you want too.
But Planehhhhhhhtttttt, I don’t WANT to get in to house music (the apparent germ of Berlin). I want to stay in Australia, I don’t want to waste time leaving it, here, where the land is beautiful and the nation’s borders are huge: many cultures are vastly separated across it, and it is my home, and I want to see it all. I am a student in the history of this land.
Sometimes I think that the status-quo of power in this nation would crumble if those of the land were able to easily and freely gain an education in the history of the complete human world outside these geographical borders. I guess that is what libraries are for. But sometimes people aren’t privvy to the mental health/wealth that comes from finding an understanding of where you came from to help you wisely choose where you’re going; the inspiration to do that.
Different strokes for different blokes.
I wish I could have travelled to the desert to see the blood moon. I imagine it would look quite beautiful. I imagine the rise of the thing to be glorious above the flatland, and if you could situate yourself on a rock formation further above the more consistent level of surrounding country, you would have a stark portrayal of our sky-parents’ ancient and sleepy flamenco playing out all across the sky in front of you.
Instead, I saw a goddess-lumiere sans colour higher in the sky than I meant to, rushing out when the torn up singer of WASP left the microphones in the room for a minute for a reason I wasn’t paying attention to because my camera’s focus ring was making things look rad, and we interacted near the door and then ran outside: open space, air, sky, moon. I realised I could feel my uterus responding to Luna, and I was all “Fuck yeah; it’s nice to have a natural cycle.”
And then I thought of my eyes again, and how nice it is to see things clearly, craved that curved glass some more, and went back inside with a different kind of curved glass flattened against my face, ready for what proved to be an intoxicating, lunician display of musicians doing a less sleepy, far more traditionally spirited flamenco across the recording room floor.
While writing a portion of this week’s column, I got a cramp from moving my foot in time to Sleep, which lead to the end of using Photoshop’s lasso tool to trace the outline of a dark-haired, balding man laying completely submerged, eyes open, in a bathtub; I have been learning how to use Windows 8 again.
I am not sure if I will finish that particular digital collage.